


Frontier Love Song

by wocket



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: Adoption, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Civil War, Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Cabin Fic, Christmas, Civil War, Cowboys & Cowgirls, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kid Fic, Little House on the Prairie - Freeform, M/M, Military Backstory, Old West, Period-Typical Homophobia, Survival, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23231143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wocket/pseuds/wocket
Summary: In 1874, settler Tim McVeigh moves to a new home on the prairie.
Relationships: Tim McVeigh/Mike Fortier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

Tim McVeigh rides up to the fork in the road and stops, pulling on the reins of his white horse. Before him lies a deep cut in the meadow, two diverging roads in the enormous prairie. One path leads west, the golden sun shining in the distance, the other to the east. 

Tim chooses the road leading to the west, as he has at so many junctures before, and rides toward the future.

When he arrives at his destination - as of yet unknown - Tim will be eligible for a small plot of land under the Homestead Act after occupying it for a number of years. All he has to do is claim his place in the world. Tim’s needs are simple, and he’s prepared for the hard life of a settler, a hardship with no glory. 

Tim chooses a place on the lonesome prairie far from any mark of society, a place where the rolling lands give way to flatter land, and a small stream runs against the grassy meadow. 

It takes him several days of camping and construction, but Tim builds a small log cabin, putting the four walls up on his own. He sets out with grim determination, battling the hostile environment with limited resources. Finally, after a week of toil, his little house on the prairie is complete.

*

Not long after Tim settles the land, he rides into the nearest town. Along the way he spies a neighboring farm down the creek, not too large, and far enough away to keep it from feeling crowded.

Tim heads straight for the mercantile to pick up supplies. He purchases two pounds of flour, two pounds of coffee, half a pound of salt, fresh eggs (half a dozen), and a sack of cornmeal. He leaves fifty cents on the counter, the last of his savings. He’ll hunt for his food, and grow anything else that he needs.

As Tim carries his goods out of the store, he bumps into a preacher, who somehow recognizes him immediately. “You must be Mr. McVeigh.” 

“Word travels fast in this township, huh?” Tim carefully shifts everything in his arms so he can shake the preacher’s hand. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Nice to meet you, young man. David Cyrus. I happen to be the welcoming committee as well as the Reverend,” the man chuckles. “Will we have the pleasure of seeing you in church on Sunday morning?”

“Sure, why not?” Tim answers casually. There’s almost a week until Sunday, but maybe his response will get Reverend Cyrus off his case. 

*

The howls of a wild animal split the night. The noise wakes Tim from his slumber, and he steps outside, seeing the shadows of several wolves moving through the buffalo grass. His horse, tied up at the hitching post, is making loud, worried sounds.

Tim picks up a tin can and chucks it at the biggest wolf’s head. It bares its teeth but leaves Warrior alone.

Tim starts making a racket and the rest of the pack runs off. He begins to sigh in relief until he realizes they’ve all headed in the direction of the neighboring farm.

Startled into action, Tim dashes inside and grabs his Winchester 73 rifle. He slings it over his shoulder and runs outside to untie his horse, riding hellbent for leather to the next homestead.

By the time Tim arrives at the next farm over, there’s already a chicken lying dead by the coop, wolves nowhere to be seen. Tim hears a loud sound from the barn, and climbs off his horse to investigate. 

As Tim moves toward the barn, a man appears in the doorway of the home, having heard the distressed animals, no doubt. Both men run into the barn after hearing loud squeals. Inside is a large wolf, teeth bared, ready to tear at a calf. Tim aims his rifle, cocks the hammer, and shoots it dead, a clean shot.

The man tries to calm the calf and her mother down.

“Where did you come from?” Mike asks, staring at the man who’s just stormed into his life, looking to him with gratitude.

“I’m your neighbor,” Tim answers, looking up. The fellow has chin-length brown hair, broad shoulders and muscular arms. 

“I was wondering who settled the land up the creek. You got a name, neighbor?” 

“Tim McVeigh,” Tim answers, offering his hand 

“Michael Fortier. Nice to make your acquaintance.” Mike looks Tim up and down. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

Tim nods and agrees, following Mike out of the barn and into the house. Mike’s homestead is not very large though bigger than his own. There’s a modest frame house with a simple garden beneath the front window, a barn beside it and a few chickens pecking around a henhouse. A half-constructed fence has been started at one end of the barn, but left unfinished. 

“I owe you one,” Mike tells Tim, pouring coffee from a kettle into a tin cup. 

“It’s nothing,” Tim shrugs. It’s the least he could do. Life on the prairie requires constant vigilance.

“What brings you out west?”

“Same as anyone, I guess,” Tim answers. “Land. Liberty. The pursuit of happiness.” 

Like Tim, Mike had come to claim a parcel of land under the Homestead Act. He’d been here a trifle longer, and had already built a home, a barn, a life.

Tim looks around, impressed. “This puts my little cabin to shame.”

“It’s not bad,” Mike says. “It’s more room than I need, sometimes.” Mike points up to the roof. “Been dealing with that corner of the roof for weeks now. It’s almost done but I can’t manage to finish.”

“Oh?” Tim’s still inspecting the damage. It must be just him, then, Tim reasons. “Why’s that?”

“My shoulder’s been acting up.”

“I can help,” Tim offers, stealing another glance at Mike in the lamplight. He’s tall (though not as tall as Tim), with a strong jawline and chestnut-colored eyes. 

“You’d do that?”

“It’ll be easy.”

“Don’t make me feel too foolish, now,” Mike laughs. 

“How about next Sunday? Noon?”

“I’ll see you then.”

A handshake settles the deal.

*

Tim spends the week working on his own farm and wondering about his neighbor. On Sunday morning he rides into the small town, past the schoolhouse, post office, and the blacksmith, down to the small white building at the end of the road. There’s only one place the townspeople will be on a Sunday morning: the church. 

Tim slips into a pew in the back for the modest service; after bumping into the Reverend at the general store earlier in the week, he felt obligated to accept his invitation. The service is short and simple, a hymn or two followed by a sermon on love.

As the congregation bows their heads in prayer, Tim studies the room, noticing Mike’s absence. It’s not like anyone knows who Tim is yet, but he’s desperate for more information on Fortier, the handsome man he’d met earlier in the week.

“McVeigh! How goes it?” Reverend Cyrus asks him after the service, greeting him with the rest of the townsfolk.

“Not too bad, sir. I’ve got a question for you.”

“About my homily?”

Tim hems and haws a little. “Well, no.” 

“Oh?”

“What can you tell me about Michael Fortier?” Tim feels strange asking the preacher for intel, but for the first time since the War of the Northern Aggression he’d felt interest stirring within him. Mike makes him curious. 

The preacher laughs. “Not much to tell. Moved out here a few years ago with his family. Doesn’t come to town much anymore, least not in some time.” Reverend Cyrus narrows his eyes. “Why? You got some trouble with him?”

“No sir, no trouble. Just collecting some neighborly information, that’s all.”

That seems to satisfy him, so Tim heads home.

*

The next morning Tim pulls on a clean plaid shirt and suspenders and rides for Mike’s homestead, a mere mile or two from his own. He hadn’t realized someone had been living so close when he picked a place to settle, but as far as neighbors go, Mike seems relatively unoffensive.

Mike is working shirtless in the garden when Tim rides his white horse Warrior up to Mike’s property. Tim starts to take in the view, but Mike spots him and pulls his shirt back on. Tim swallows.

“Timothy,” Mike waves.

“Just Tim,” Tim answers. He climbs off his horse and shakes Mike’s hand, and Tim pretends he doesn’t notice the sweat pooling at Mike’s collarbone. “So how about that roof?”

Mike leads Tim to the lumber. Tim starts working diligently, and they make quick work of the job with two men. Both of them have strong backs and a willingness to work, the only thing slowing them down occasionally being Mike’s injured shoulder.

Time passes without notice, and they work until sundown.

“Stay for supper,” Mike pleads. 

Tim wipes his dirty hands on a rag. “I guess so,” he agrees. 

Mike doesn’t have much food to offer, but with Tim he shares a few pieces of cornbread, some dried venison, and a tin of beans. After they clean their plates, Mike rifles through his cupboards. “Somewhere…” Mike mutters until he finds a Mason jar full of blackberries. “Here! Picked ‘em yesterday.” Mike unscrews the lid.

Tim plucks a blackberry from the top of the jar, popping it into his mouth. “Mmm,” he responds, his eyes brightening. “Dadgum, these are the best I’ve ever tasted!”

Mike looks pleased. “I’ll show you where they grow. There’s a patch down by the crick.”

Tim steals a greedy handful.

“I didn’t see you in church on Sunday,” Tim comments off-handedly. 

“Maybe next week,” Mike shrugs casually, and changes the topic. 

Tim helps himself to the blackberries until they start talking and then Tim forgets about them completely. Mike’s from back East, too, and roughly the same age as Tim. Tim tells him about his sister back in New York, remembering his home for the first time in a long while. Tim and Jennifer still post letters to each other, Tim doing his best to describe the hard life of a settler and the enormity of a task like taking on the frontier.

Tim finds it easy to make Mike laugh, and the conversation flows as they lean back in their chairs, satisfied.

“Well, I should be getting back,” Tim finally says. The night’s not getting any younger.

“Thanks for all of your help,” Mike says sincerely, reaching for a bundle on the table. “Here. Take these.”

Tim peeks into the handkerchief and spies apple turnovers. His jaw drops. He hasn’t had any baked goods in ages, despite his sweet tooth. “I couldn’t —” he says, even though he desperately wants to. 

Mike pushes the bundle back toward Tim. “Take them. I made more than I can eat. It’s a small way to say thank you.”

Resigned, Tim accepts them gratefully.

Mike follows Tim outside to his horse, patting Warrior on the snout as Tim mounts the animal. 

Tim points to the beginnings of the fence beside the barn. “Say, I could help you with that fence, if you wanted. Mighty hard to lay those logs alone.”

“I’d like that,” Mike agrees, and Tim sets off.

*

Tim comes back the Saturday after next, and the Saturday after that, and the one after that. He spends more time tending to Mike’s home than to his own, without complaint. Mike feeds him in exchange for the work and Tim helps with just about everything, until the roof is repaired and the fence is built and the barn door is mended. Tim always manages to point out some new area that needs improvement before he rides off into the sunset, some other thing to fix, building the house all the while building their friendship.

*

Tim wastes the day away at Mike’s more often than not, the raucous sounds of laughter and arguments rocking the cabin, and the sight of Tim riding up to Mike’s farm with a Winchester 73 slung over his shoulder becomes a familiar one. Tim’s a crack shot, good with a pistol and even better with a rifle. There’s no better sharpshooter in the whole west.

Most of the time, Tim comes back with a rabbit or two, maybe a squirrel. Today, Tim returns with a prime catch, a deer braced over his tall shoulders.

“I’ll be damned,” Mike crows, when he sees Tim walking back from the treeline with his prize. 

“It’s going to be a fine night,” Tim replies proudly. The deer will keep them full tonight, and Mike could salt the meat so they’d have jerky for weeks.

“How can I thank you enough?”

“Well, it’s not all for you,” Tim laughs. 

The deer makes for a hearty meal for them both. After they eat, Mike picks up his fiddle, and Tim is rather amazed. “I didn’t know you played.”

Mike starts playing a familiar ballad. 

_“Oh, we’ll rally round the flag, boys,  
we’ll rally once again.  
Shout, shout the battle cry of freedom.  
Beneath it oft we’ve conquered,  
and we’ll conquer oft again.”_

Tim joins in on the last line. “ _Shout, shout the battle cry of freedom!”_

“I had no idea you played,” Tim admits after the song, impressed.

“I try. I’m sure there are things I don’t know about you.”

“Like?”

“The way you carry yourself sometimes.” Mike puts down the fiddle. “Your past.”

“You can ask.”

“Did you fight in the war?” 

Mike watches the lamplight play off Tim’s face. He nods solemnly.

“I thought, maybe… I thought you might be a Union soldier,” he says, knowing Tim was from the state of New York.

Tim looks at the floor. How to say this? “Not a Union soldier,” he admits. “Is that a problem?”

Mike shakes his head no.

“Good,” Tim says quietly. Do the ghosts of Mike’s past haunt him as they do Tim? “What gave it away? The dead look behind my eyes?” 

“Is that why you don’t take a wife?” Mike asks boldly.

Tim licks his lips. What a question. “It might be. Why haven’t you taken a wife?”

Mike’s face changes, and it looks like his words taste sour. “I did take a wife,” he says, and Tim is filled with surprise. “I married a girl named Lori Hart several summers ago.”

Mike’s not wearing a ring. There’s no sign of a woman in his small homestead. Besides, an unmarried man of his age wasn’t unusual, there were plenty of bachelors out west.

Mike can see the complete and utter confusion on Tim’s face, so he tries to explain. “She passed. Scarlet fever. It’ll be two years this December.”

“That must be the hardest thing in the world.”

“It was. Until our little girl passed a few weeks later.”

Tim sucks in a breath. “I’m so sorry.” When he looks down, he sees that their fingers are linked together. He doesn’t remember doing that. He pulls his hand back with a cough. Maybe he’s been misreading the signs - it’s all too possible. Of course Mike didn’t choose his solitude in the manner Tim had chosen his. “Thank you for supper,” he says, changing the subject.

“Thank _you_. You caught the damn thing.”

Mike picks the fiddle up again. He plays a sweet melody, a night-herding song, a lonesome and longing tune. 

“ _Lay still, little dogies, since you have laid down  
Stretch away on the big open ground.  
Snore loud, little dogies, drown the wild sound  
that will all go away when the day rolls around. _

_Lay still, little dogies, lay still.”_

Tim’s heard the tune before, but never in a way that moved him so.

*

Mike and Tim are working in Mike’s garden one Sunday afternoon when the conversation of church comes up again. “I grew up going to Mass with my Pa. It’s… the thing to do, I guess.” Mike doesn’t really respond, so Tim presses further. “You don’t ever go.”

“I used to,” is all he says, and Tim waits quietly for Mike to explain, but he doesn’t offer anything else, so he leaves it at that.

Mike points at a spot in his front yard, changing the topic. “I wanted to plant an apple tree — right _there_.” 

“Well, do it,” Tim encourages, “but don’t plant just one. You need two for it to bear fruit.” 

“All right, I will,” Mike answers, wondering where Tim had learnt a thing like that. Tim seems to have knowledge that surpasses Mike’s own in so many realms.

Tim takes another bite from his apple, then pulls a few seeds from the core. He drops them into Mike’s palm.

Mike buries them in the dirt, beside the fence Tim had helped Mike build. 

“There.” He looks up at Tim. “One more thing to cross off the list.”

It’s not the only thing Tim helps him plant that spring; together they work on Mike’s kitchen garden, laying out small rows of greens and peas. They take care to plant different crops than the ones over at Tim’s to give them a little variety, and switch to heartier vegetables in the summer.

The two men work together when the grain gets ripe, favoring the pleasant company over the virtue of self-sufficiency. Mike and Tim labor all day in the fields cutting and gathering several acres a day using grain cradles, hard but honest work.

By the end of the year, two little apple trees have sprouted up at the fence, side by side.

*

One freezing evening, Mike is supposed to come calling round Tim’s, but by nightfall there’s still no sign of Fortier. Tim waits and waits, until he can bear it no longer, and saddles his horse and rides for Mike’s homestead. 

Tim can hear Mike’s horse still tied up in the barn as he approaches. Tim hitches up Warrior beside Mike’s mount and knocks on the front door of the house. 

There’s no answer. He bangs harder, then presses on the door when there’s still no reply. “Mike? Mike!”

It’s quiet, and there’s a small fire in the fireplace that’s almost burnt out. 

Mike is lying in bed, wrapped in a nightshirt and shivering. He looks rough. 

Tim drops to his knees beside Mike. “You look terrible.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t show up.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Tim tells him, looking for a cloth. He wets it down and applies it to Mike’s brow, wiping down the sweat. “How do you feel?”

“The way I look. I haven’t slept in two days.”

Tim keeps dabbing gently. “Can you eat?”

“Can’t even get up,” Mike scoffs, coughing. 

“I’ll make you some soup,” Tim promises. He brings Mike some fresh water first, holding the cup to Mike’s lips.

“I don’t want you getting sick.”

“I won’t.” Tim says, looking for the cast iron stewpot. “It’s freezing in here.”

Mike shivers, as if on cue. 

Tim stokes the fire back to life and returns to Mike’s bedside. “We’ll get you better in no time.”

Tim tries to distract Mike from his sickness, telling him stories about his journey west from New York and his brief days as a cattle-herder.

“Do you ever regret it? Moving west?”

Tim doesn’t have to think much on that one. If he hadn’t picked up everything he owned and moved, he’d have never met Mike Fortier. He squints. “It’s a better life.”

“What the hell brought you all the way out here, McVeigh?”

Tim grins. “I settled in Kansas, first. Well - after New York, and Florida, and Michigan… that was all well and good until federal troops removed me from the land. Said I’d been living on Indian territory. Things were already bad with the Indians, and I guess I had the misfortune of settling just a few miles over the line, on Osage land.”

“The government took your home? Just like that?”

“I don’t know why the government bothers negotiating with Indians,” Tim complains, anger stirring.

“I don’t know which of the two is worse,” Mike agrees. 

“Hadn’t I already done enough for my country?” Tim sighs. “I packed everything up and headed west. I just kept going. I never felt like I had a home anywhere. Still don’t, I guess.”

“Why Kansas, though? To start with?”

“I just wanted something more.”

“How many homes have you left behind you?”

“Houses, plenty.” Tim studies Mike. “Homes, not so many.”

Mike, in the haze of his fever, drops his hand on Tim’s on top of the covers. 

Tim lets him keep it there until his fever breaks, looking away quietly.

*

Months later, Mike pulls out a tin from the top of the cupboard and sets it on his table. It clanks.

Tim sneaks a look inside - it’s full of nickels and pennies. “What is this?”

“It’s the last six dollars I need for the patent on the land.”

A smile disrupts Tim’s face. “Mike! That’s a hell of a thing. Good for you.” It’d be years before Tim was eligible to completely own his land under the Homestead Act.

Mike looks satisfied. After years of disappointment and toil, the land he’d worked for would finally be his. 

“Let’s celebrate,” he decides. “We’ll take fishing poles down to the pond. Forget working today.”

“Okay. Yeah.”

Mike grins at Tim and starts grabbing all the supplies they’ll need for fishing. In a good mood, he even sneaks a few turnovers into a handkerchief; a treat for Tim.

They walk besides one another to the crick, over to the swimming hole. It’s a beautiful place, clear blue water meandering through the creek bed, babbling serenely, the bottom full of smooth rocks of all sizes. Grass sprouts up along the creek, wildflowers growing in between bergamot and black-eyed Susans. Butterflies dance among the weeds at the base of a large walnut tree on the far bank. It’s storybook perfection.

It’s a shady, peaceful spot, and not too well-known, either. Today, it feels a million miles away.

The sun is bright, and eventually Tim toes off his boots, wiggling his toes and dipping them in the cool water. Dappled sunlight warms his skin.

“You’ll scare the fishes.”

“They weren’t biting anyway,” Tim scoffs, wading into the creek. Before Mike realizes what he’s doing, he’s unbuttoning his shirt and stripping off his clothes. He’s naked in the water before Mike can ask what’s going on.

Tim looks back at his friend after dunking his head under the water. “The water feels great. Get in.”

Mike shakes his head, wipes at the sweat on his brow. “I’m all right.” The wind rustles his hair.

Tim splashes him. “I thought we were celebrating,” he says, squinting in the sunlight.

Mike pretends to let Tim convince him, then unbuttons his shirt. He doesn’t feel self-conscious until he sees that Tim is still watching, treading water. Mike pushes his pants from his hips and joins Tim in the water. He’s right, it feels good. Refreshing.

Mike floats on his back, surrendering himself to the weightless sensation. 

When he rights himself, Tim’s right there, studying him. How long has he been watching him? Mike runs a hand through his wet hair to push it away from his face. 

The pair swim and cavort and act like young men again, not a care in the world, until there’s a natural lull in their horseplay. They tread water, hovering close to one another, shifting closer without meaning to, blaming it on the current.

Mike spies a scar on Tim’s chest just beneath his collarbone, one that almost disappears in the water depending on how he floats. Mike reaches out to touch it, pressing his finger against the puckered skin, grateful that Tim doesn’t recoil at the uninvited move.

Mike doesn’t want to ask, doesn’t want to be rude, but he’s desperate to know. “From the war?” he manages to get out.

Tim nods but doesn’t push him away. Mike follows the line of the scar with the tip of his finger. “ _I have not winced or cried aloud — under the bludgeoning of chance, my head is bloody but unbowed_.” The words tumble out under his breath.

“Hmm?”

Mike remembers to take his hand back. “Nothing. It’s a — it’s a poem.”

Tim smiles, does Mike a favor and acts like he’s not behaving strangely at all. Then he disappears under the water.

“Tim?” Mike asks, when his friend doesn’t come up for air. He looks around, then Tim bursts up behind him, dunking him under the water playfully. 

The tranquility of the earlier moment is broken, but a new one begins, and they play in the creek until their arms are sore, fishing poles totally forgotten. When they’re done, they lie beside each other on the grassy bank, drying in the sun.

After the warmth saps the droplets of water from their bodies, Mike remembers the apple turnovers, and digs them out for Tim, who takes a bite with satisfaction.

It’s a pity the day has to end.

*

The smell of smoke disrupts Mike’s chores one evening. He’s bringing in the eggs he’d forgotten to collect earlier in the day when he sees a black haze rising above the trees in the direction of Tim’s farm. Mike saddles up his brown horse without a second thought.

Coming up to the edge of the property, he spies Tim, silhouetted against the burning flames that hold his barn in their grasp. The flames dance across the prairie as Tim tries desperately to put out the fire. He throws heaps of water on the blaze, bucket after bucket.

Mike ties up his horse and dismounts, running to Tim’s side, helping Tim grab another bucket and tossing it on the burning barn. 

Valiantly, they fight the fire, until the flames consume the structure and their goal becomes futile. It’s been a dry summer, and the men are no match for the elements.

Tim puts his soot-stained hands on his face as he drops to his knees, watching the scene helplessly.

Mike stands beside him until there’s nothing left to save. For every victorious moment on the prairie, there’s another step backward, a step in the wrong direction. It was no doubt he’d lost months of supplies in the fire. “It’s not safe for you to stay here,” Mike says, and the words fall on deaf ears. “The wind could change.” He puts a hand on Tim’s shoulder, but Tim just watches the barn - and his wheat crop - burn. 

After a heavy, hollow moment, Tim goes inside his cabin anyway, searches haphazardly for a bottle of moonshine and starts drinking. He takes a few deep swigs.

Mike waits patiently in the doorway. “Your horse is scared half to death,” he says, hoping Tim will leave for his horse’s sake if not his own.

Tim takes a deep breath. “Okay. Let’s go.” Tim throws a few things in his knapsack - he’s never owned many material possessions - and relents to stay at Mike’s house for the night.

Tim takes care to calm Warrior down as best he can, and follows Mike back to the Fortier place.

Inside the house, Tim drinks a swig of moonshine straight from the bottle. Eventually he passes it to Mike, who pours some for himself in a tin cup. 

“Goddamnit,” Tim curses, slamming his fist down on the table. “All the grain stores… gone. Like that.” He snaps his fingers.

Mike waits in silence, not wanting to diminish Tim’s pain, but hoping to soothe the fire brimming inside him. “You’ll come back from it. You always have. This time’s no different.”

“Mike, I spent my last ten dollars on the lumber for that barn!” Tim snaps, ornery. Mike usually avoids agitating his nerves, sharing his point of view on most things.

After Tim’s outburst, the loud noise of thunder rolls through the prairie. Tim and Mike both look up, startled. 

“The storm will put out the fire,” Mike adds, _and the house will be safe_ , but Tim knows that already. How badly they’d needed rain. Could it not have come one day sooner?

Still, Tim’s blunt attitude tempers with the storm, moonshine doing its job. As the rain pours rapidly, they drink. They drink and drink and drink, loosing their suspenders and their tongues. 

Tim waits for the rain to stop so he can ride back to his own cabin, but it never does. 

Tim looks out the window.

“Are you that desperate to leave?” Mike asks softly from somewhere behind him. 

Tim swallows and tries to bury the feeling in his chest, throwing back more liquor.

Mike reaches out and takes the bottle from Tim, fingers brushing against each other’s on the glass, and he sets it down, out of the way.

Mike is right there, close enough to feel the heat radiating from Tim’s body. His brown eyes are focused deeply on Tim’s own blue eyes, full of concern, and the thing that’s been coiled inside Tim like a rattlesnake releases.

Tim steps - glides - forward and all of a sudden he’s kissing Mike, melting into the embrace. 

Tim’s hand rests on Mike’s neck, palm warm against his skin. Compared to the cool rain outside, everything feels hot, steamy.

“Mike,” Tim breathes, and Mike fists his hands in Tim’s suspenders. 

Tim smiles, unable to help himself, giving in and nipping at Mike’s lower lip. He tastes like moonshine, and feels like manifest destiny.

They don’t break the kiss until Tim realizes it’s dead quiet. The rain has stopped. 

The two men separate slowly, eyes wide. Mike lets go, worried at the sight of Tim’s panicked expression.

“I should go,” Tim manages to say, backing away, tripping over his own long legs. 

Mike says nothing, not knowing how to stop him. 

*

What scares Tim the most is how easily he’d let it happen. How fast he let himself forget himself and give in to foolish want. It isn’t worth losing Mike over, or his home, or his reputation.

Tim starts avoiding Mike, taking the long way into town so he can bypass Fortier’s property completely. 

For once, it’s Mike who comes a-calling at Tim’s modest log cabin. Tim knows the instant he sets foot on the property. He stands in the doorway, hands on his pistol.

“That’s not for me, is it?”

“Habit.” Tim motions casually. “Come in.”

The first thing Mike notices after hitching up his horse is the disrepair. For every single thing that’s been fixed at Mike’s place, there’s something desperately in need of work here. It doesn’t make sense - why spend so much time working on Mike’s place, when it looks like this?

“It’s not much,” Tim shrugs. 

“Not what I was thinking.” Mike takes a deep breath. “I want you to come take supper with me.”

“You don’t want that.”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” Mike starts, and then decides he might as well finish. He came all this way for a reason. “I picked up my life and moved thousands of miles for something better. This is it.”

“Okay,” Tim relents after a long pause. “I’ll do it.”

*

The sun is long gone, the only light in Mike’s cabin an oil lamp dimmed extremely low. Supper is long gone, too, a rabbit stew cooked over the fire that Tim had already cleaned up. 

Mike and Tim have been oscillating around each other since that kiss. Tim had never expected anything like it, though he couldn’t deny the feelings that had been growing within him for some time. He’s so drawn to Mike, in some inexplicable way.

There’s a large fire in the fireplace, a blessing in the winter chill, and Tim makes it his mission to keep it alive through the night, bringing in wood from outside, shivering every time he steps back through the doorway and shakes the snow from his shoulders.

These nights by the fire, they bare their souls. 

Mike can certainly tell a fable, but Mike never enlisted, so he’s keen on hearing all of Tim’s war stories. Mike’s injured shoulder had kept him from the terror of war, a blessing and a curse. Tim knows it still bothers him from time to time, so he’s always willing to offer help, even if Mike doesn’t want to ask for it. 

“Did you see battle?” Mike asks between sips of whiskey, even though he knows the answer.

Most of the time Tim shares stupid stories about his fellow soldiers, but this seems different.

“Sharpsburg.” Mike doesn’t recognize the name. “Antietam.”

“Oh,” Mike says with recognition. His gaze is patient and understanding, and Tim feels the stories pour out of him.

“We couldn’t have had more than 15,000 men, a tiny number compared to the Yankee troops. We were tired and hungry, fighting off offensive after offensive, until the cornfield became a killing field.” Tim takes a breath. “I’ll never forget the blood. The stacks of bodies.” He keeps going, unafraid to share everything with Mike. “For hours after that, a small group of us - a couple hundred, maybe - held the Lower Bridge from the Union soldiers. We held a position on the west bank, a high wooded bluff perfect for the sharpshooters. We were there for a few hours, but it felt like days.” Tim shakes his head. “Thousands of men died.”

Mike is grateful he’s never had to see these awful things; how could he cope? Tim is unbelievable. It’s a miracle he’s even here today.

The howl of the wind picks up. The two men can feel the chill of the wind through the paper-thin walls and cold earthen floors. The storm is getting fouler, and fast. 

“You’ll have to stay the night,” Mike decides, unwilling to take no for an answer. He finds a quilt and offers it to Tim. “Here. You’re so thin you could bathe in a shotgun barrel.”

Mike is out of coffee beans, so he heats up a bit of apple cider on the wood stove, pouring some in tin cups for them both. “No coffee,” he says apologetically.

“Makes it hard for me to sleep, anyway,” Tim tells him. He tucks the blanket over his knees, lifting up one corner of the blanket so Mike can scoot closer and share the heat. Despite the cold, it’s comfortable.

The two men talk the night away, their conversation as warm as the fire.

Tim gets up to stoke the dying flames again, but the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He turns.

Mike is in his space, a strange look on his face. He doesn’t say anything - and Tim can’t, either, can’t break this spell - but softly presses forward. Tim doesn’t remember moving - doesn’t remember any time passing at all - but he must have, because the next thing he knows, his hands are in Mike’s long hair and Mike’s hands are on him and they’re sharing air, they’re sharing so much they’re practically sharing a breath, the distance between them disintegrating as they meet each other in a kiss.

Tim decides in this moment there’s nothing he’d like to do more than kiss Mike Fortier. 

Without looking, Mike lowers the wick on the lamp until it burns out. 

Their hands find each other in the dark.

The kiss turns hot, and Tim slips the suspenders from Mike’s shoulders. 

Mike plucks Tim’s shirt from his trousers as Tim runs his hands across Mike’s broad chest, unbuttoning the shirt as he goes. His fingers move underneath the fabric, exploring once he’s certain they won’t be pushed away.

Mike catches Tim’s hand and leads him over to the bed, where they fall into a pile of quilts and feather pillows. 

This thing - whatever it is - has been building since the day they met, both of them too afraid to name it. What are the odds they’d find each other out here?

Mike pushes Tim’s shirt from his shoulders and Tim does the same and they carry on kissing, hands wandering. Their bodies move together in the night, near, then nearer.

Tim gets Mike spread on his back, pleasuring him with his mouth, until Mike sits up with searching eyes. 

Mike lowers Tim to the bed and opens him up on thick fingers, taking his time like they’ve got all night, because they do.

Finally, Mike slips inside Tim, aided by Vaseline, driving him open. Tim groans and Mike bears down harder, trying to show him with his body all the things he can’t say. Mike fucks him until he practically howls, low sounds breaking the night. 

They please each other until there’s no desire left to satisfy, falling against the blankets sweaty and sated. Tim can’t contain his happiness, feeling good, really good, for the first time in ages. Surely this isn’t what they’re meant to be doing, but it feels right.

Tim can feel Mike staring at him, even in the dark.

“Did you mean it? Can I stay?” Tim asks breathlessly.

“Of course. I hoped you would,” Mike answers, and they do it all again.

*

They take the morning slow, without a care for work. Tim wakes first, always the earlier riser of the two, pressing his naked body against Mike’s, waking the other man up with lazy kisses to his neck and shoulders. He’s got a satisfied look on his face when Mike finally opens his eyes.

Mike clears his throat. “I don’t usually do this,” he tells Tim. “I mean, I’ve never…” He struggles, trying to find a way to put it in words.

Tim remembers hearing about Mike’s wife, assuming that was the last time he’d taken a lover.

“Me too,” Tim chimes in, but then he leans in and kisses Mike like he plans to do it every morning for the rest of his life. 

The kiss is slow and steady and sweet like molasses, both of them so wrapped up in each other that an unexpected knock at the door makes them almost jump out of their skin.

Mike pulls a pair of his trousers on as nimble as he can while Tim eyes him hungrily, hands tucked behind his head. 

“You should probably hide yourself,” Mike suggests, gesturing to Tim’s nude body with a smile. He runs a hand through his hair to tame it.

“Aye, aye,” Tim salutes, disappearing under the covers (almost completely) as Mike answers the door.

“Morning, Mr. Fortier. Letter for you.” The postman offers an envelope.

“You didn’t have to come all the way out here,” Mike tells him gratefully. “Thank you.”

The postman appears to look past Mike curiously, then tips his hat at Mike. “Good day.”

When Mike turns around, he almost collapses with laughter. He tosses the letter aside and forgets about it.

“Is that your idea of hiding?” Mike laughs, seeing that Tim has pulled the quilt up over his head. He’s so damn tall that the fabric doesn’t cover him completely, his large white feet sticking obviously out the other end. “You’re practically invisible.” Mike tweaks his big toe.

Tim throws the blanket off his head and reaches up for Mike, yanking him back into the bed. 

“It’ll be a hell of a ride back to the homestead,” Tim kids, remembering the way it felt to have Mike inside him, how complete he felt.

“You’ll just have to stay longer, then,” Mike replies.

Tim’s eyes sparkle.

*

The nights spent lying awake are a lot less lonely, now. 

Mike’s got one hand tucked under his goose-down pillow, staring across the bed at his lover.

“You never did tell me why you dislike the Injuns so much.”

“The only good Indian is a dead one. Isn’t it obvious?”

“You’re a complicated man, McVeigh.”

“You really want to know?”

Mike nods.

“I was with a group of soldiers in Kansas - a patrol of maybe 25 men - traveling at the edge of Indian territory. They rode ahead, while I stayed behind for some stupid reason…” Tim takes a breath. “The troop was surrounded by a group of Osage. It should have been peaceful, but a soldier fired, and it turned into an assault from there. A slaughter. Only one or two men made it out alive… the rest…” Tim shuts his eyes, hating to relive the moment.

“What did you see?” Mike whispers.

“The men were - beheaded. Each and every one.”

It’s somehow worse than Mike had imagined.

Mike reaches for Tim, presses his palm to his chest, over his war wound, whether he intends to touch that spot or not. “That’s terrifying,” Mike says, pressing his finger gently against the skin, a reassuring touch.

“I liked being in the Army. Thought I was made for it. But some of the things I’ve seen… the blood… Sometimes I want to go to sleep and never wake up.” 

Mike traces his finger against the scar, like he did that day underneath the sun. 

“The poem… from the swimming hole… tell me the rest of it,” Tim asks quietly.

Mike shuts his eyes and tries to remember the recitation. 

_“Out of the night that covers me,  
black as the pit from pole to pole,  
I thank whatever gods may be for my unconquerable soul. _

_In the fell clutch of circumstance  
I have not winced nor cried aloud.  
Under the bludgeoning of chance,  
my head is bloody but unbowed. _

_It matters not how strait the gate,  
how charged with punishments the scroll,  
I am the master of my fate.  
I am the captain of my soul.”_

Mike whispers the words, accidentally leaving out a verse. When he reopens his eyes, Tim’s are shut tightly.

Mike studies the curve of Tim’s cheekbone, and the way his pale eyelashes fall on his cheek. He reaches up to stroke Tim’s jaw. Tim’s body told stories of the things he’d been through, the horrors of war. Mike wants Tim to leave all that behind, wants him to find rest here.

Mike’s touch becomes a caress, and Tim opens an eye.

Tim covers Mike’s hand with his own and laces their fingers together.

Mike leans in until there’s nothing keeping them apart, and bestows a reverent kiss.

*

The mercantile is dead quiet when Tim steps foot inside the small store. So quiet, that when Tim steps forward to purchase a sack of flour, he can hear the whispers behind him.

“That man’s been coming and going from the Fortier place every day for a week,” the hushed gossip comes from the corner.

Tim turns and gives the woman the eye, the sharp line of his shoulders turning tense.

“Were you saying something?” Tim asks, his voice dripping with false politeness.

The woman averts her eyes in judgment, hems and haws. “Lot of laughter coming from that place these days.”

“Laughter?”

The woman’s eyes are cold. “All I meant was, it’s been a long time since we heard music _or_ laughter from the Fortier place, that’s all.”

Tim gulps.

A steady voice comes from somewhere behind them. “Mrs. Nichols.” It’s the Reverend Cyrus. “I believe your husband is waiting for you in the wagon outside.”

“Why, thank you, Reverend,” she says graciously, giving Tim the stink-eye before she exits.

Tim shakes his head in disbelief. When he turns to greet the preacher, his countenance is no more welcoming than the look on Lana Nichols’ sour face.

“Mr. McVeigh,” the Reverend Cyrus greets. “The children are all talking about the two cowboys who live together,” he says. “She probably just wanted to see if it was true.”

Tim’s speechless. It isn’t true. As much time as Tim and Mike spend together, it’s not the truth. 

“It’d do you good to consider the eternal damnation of the soul,” the Reverend spouts, like they’re not in the middle of the mercantile, like Tim fucking _asked_ him. “Is any sin worth hellfire?”

Despite all of Tim’s caution, somehow they must have been too obvious, too careless, but that’s not the worst of it. The worst is that these folk are making him feel like it’s _wrong_ when Mike Fortier is the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him. Tim didn’t always pay attention in church as a child, but he remembers the concept of limitless love, even if he never meant to take all of the “love thy neighbor” stuff quite so literally.

“I don’t believe in Hell,” Tim answers assuredly.

“It’s a sin,” the Reverend repeats sternly, not even naming the thing he’s speaking of. Tim shakes his head in disagreement. That’s impossible.

“God forgives a whole lot worse,” Tim says, and it’s the last thing he ever says to the man.

*

The next time Tim rides up to Mike’s homestead, he’s got his Winchester 73 rifle slung over his shoulder and two rabbits strung up in his left hand.

Mike stands in the doorway, waiting, wiping his hands on a rag that he tosses over his shoulder. “Tim.”

“Hey you,” Tim greets. “It’s not much, but it’ll be enough for dinner,” Tim claims, but Mike’s not even looking at the rabbits. He’s only got eyes for Tim.

Mike takes the rabbits, starting to prep a stew while Tim hitches up his pale horse.

“It’ll take a while for it to roast,” Mike warns Tim after putting the stew on the fire.

“So there’s time, is what you’re saying?” Tim jests with a wink.

It’s a joke, but Mike locks eyes with Tim.

“Tim, there’s nothing but time,” Mike says desperately. “Stay with me. Nobody has to know,” he promises. “It makes so much sense, Tim. Just… stay,” Mike babbles.

Then they’re kissing, and life on the prairie will never be the same.

“What am I supposed to do? Just pack up and move here?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Mike insists. “There’s room in the stable for your horse, and room in my bed for you.”

“What will people say?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

Tim still doesn’t look convinced. 

“You helped build this house with your bare hands. Live here with me,” Mike begs.

Tim can’t find the words to answer, so he kisses Mike instead. “It’s impossible.”

“You deserve the impossible.”

“No, I mean… really, it’s not…” Tim lets go of Mike. “I’m leaving for the World’s Fair.”

Mike can’t believe the words he’s hearing. “You’re doing _what_?”

Tim reiterates the plan. “I’m traveling east the week after next to sell goods out of a wagon. Old man Nichols has already agreed to give me a fair price.”

Mike shakes his head. “I don’t understand.” Things had been going so well. This was unexpected, to say the least. “You’re going back east?”

“Ten million people will be in Philadelphia for America’s Centennial. It’s an incredible opportunity, Mike.”

That’s what moving to the west was supposed to be, an incredible opportunity.

“What about your cabin?”

“My cabin’s not in great shape anyway. Besides, I’ll be back in a few months.”

That seems a lifetime away.

“Tim.”

“This is the way to prosper, don’t you see that?”

“It’s a long way to go alone,” Mike says, looking for excuses, not realizing Tim’s decision is meant to protect Mike.

“I moved to the west on my own, didn’t I?”

There it was. Tim would always be okay by his lonesome, surviving all by himself. 

Mike doesn’t answer the rhetorical question, choosing instead to go back to his chores and put it from his mind. 

“Is this because of what Reverend Cyrus said to you?” Mike finally asks, and Tim looks up sharply.

“How do you know what Reverend Cyrus said to me?”

Mike frowns, upset. “I didn’t.” He furrows his brow. “He had some nasty words for me last time I went into town. Figured he must have done the same to you.”

Tim looks hopeless. “Someone oughta burn that church down.”

“Don’t say that. It doesn’t matter what he thinks.”

“Today it’s Reverend Cyrus, or just some kids. What happens when it’s half the township?”

“You can take care of yourself. I’m not worried.”

“Well, it ain’t about me!” Tim raises his voice, angry. “Sonuvabitch.”

Mike crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head. “I just don’t understand why you’re fixin’ to leave all of a sudden.”

“I need some air,” Tim mutters.

“Half a country’s worth?” Mike asks, frustrated, watching Tim disappear out his front door with his own pipe and tobacco.

*

Mike spends two days convincing himself Tim had never cared in the first place. They were friends - neighbors - and nothing more. Anything that seemed like something else was an accident.

Nothing is permanent on the prairie, no matter how bad you want it to last.

Tim had fixed up everything in Mike’s life - the hole in his roof, the fence - and then left the biggest hole of all - the one in his chest.

It’s not the first time Mike’s had to let go of someone, but it’s the first time he’s watched that someone leave of their own volition, riding off into the sunset — away from him. 

Tim had offered Mike a simple farewell before leaving, a chaste hug that Mike hadn’t wanted to come to an end. “Take care of yourself,” he’d said, as they both waited to see if that’s all there would be to the goodbye.

*

It’s a gorgeous summer night, but Mike is alone inside his house. Life has been quiet since Tim left for Philadelphia. _Tim_. Tim has to be as far east as Chicago by now, if not further. 

Mike picks up his fiddle, and plays a soft, slow melody. In the middle of the song, a knock at the door interrupts his reverie. 

Mike opens the door, suddenly faced with Tim McVeigh. Impossible. Tim left town days ago. This must be his imagination.

Then Tim steps into his space, gripping the front of his shirt and dragging him into a rough kiss. Mike’s never tasted anything so sweet. 

Mike’s confused as hell, though, and Tim’s not offering any clarity. “The Centennial,” he manages to get out between kisses.

“It doesn’t matter,” he says impatiently, kissing Mike again. “Rode as far as Rockford before I realized I was riding in the wrong direction.”

If that doesn’t take Mike’s breath away, his kiss does.

“What day is it, Mike?”

“July 4.”

“It’s the 4th?” Tim grins and takes Mike’s face between his hands. “I didn’t think I’d make it in time. Look in my knapsack.”

Mike does as he says.

“Holy —” Mike gapes, looking in the bag. “Is this dynamite?”

“Better,” Tim replies, pulling everything out excitedly. He takes Mike by the hand and pulls him into the yard. He drags him out aways, until they’re a good distance from the house and the barn, past the two strong apple trees standing solidly beside the split-rail fence. 

They move further into the field until they reach a clearing. Tim feels in his pocket for matches. He sets up some of the fireworks and strikes a match, bending down to light the firecrackers.

Tim runs back to Mike’s side to watch the display of fireworks. The gunpowder explodes into a burst of blue and white sparks, colors shattering like broken stars in the air.

Tim links their fingers together, all the while looking up at the sky. “Stole ‘em off a Chinaman’s cart. What do you think?”

When Tim looks at Mike for an answer he’s not looking at the fireworks, he’s staring directly at Tim with a besotted look.

Tim breaks out in a smile. “I’ve never courted anyone before,” he admits, feeling foolish. “Is this —?”

Mike fists a hand in Tim’s collar and yanks him closer, meeting his mouth in a deep kiss.

Tim puts his hand on the back of Mike’s neck, fingers in his thick brown hair, and kisses him like he’s making up for lost time.

“I think we better go inside,” Mike warns, but keeps kissing him. 

Tim grabs his hand and pulls him toward the house with fierce determination.

Mike and Tim kiss until they can’t sustain it any longer. They move with each other as one until they’re in Mike’s bed, pushing each other’s clothes off, nipping at skin, mouths touching every tender place.

“Why’d you come back?” Mike asks against Tim’s shoulder.

Tim kisses the taste of Mike’s coffee from his lips. “You asked me once about all the homes I left behind… I couldn’t leave this one, too. It wasn’t that easy,” he says. Tim came back. Tim came back for _Mike_.

Mike has nothing to say, so he just keeps kissing his love. 

“I’m sorry,” Tim tells him.

“You have nothing to apologize for. You’re here, ain’t you?”

The two men fall into another kiss. 

“I love you, Mike Fortier. I’m not afraid to say it anymore.”

“You already know how I feel, don’t you?” Mike asks quietly, thumb caressing Tim’s collarbone.

Tim kisses a trail from Mike’s chest down beyond his hips, and then takes him in his mouth.

“Tim —” Mike blurts, grasping at Tim’s shoulders. “Holy hell.”

Tim licks and sucks and drives Mike wild until he’s close to coming, then crawls back up the length of the bed to kiss him and pull Mike on top of him. Mike’s sweat glistens in the lamplight. 

“Please?” Tim asks, eyes searching. He starts to roll over onto his front but Mike catches his wrists. 

“Stop,” Mike says, pinning Tim’s wrists above his head so that he’ll stay on his back. “I want to see you.” 

Mike falls in love with the peculiar look on Tim’s face, the smitten look Tim tries to hide in the hollowed glow of the evening lamplight.

Mike fingers Tim open, starting with one finger and working his way to two under Tim’s watchful gaze.

Tim gasps, and Mike looks up. “Did I hurt you?”

Tim shakes his head frantically. “Keep going,” he beckons.

Mike kisses the inside of Tim’s thigh and works his fingers inside Tim, harder, deeper, enjoying the way he arches up off Mike’s bed at the touch. Tim is like putty in his hands.

“Do it,” Tim says, sucking in a breath of air before stealing Mike’s mouth in an insistent kiss.

Mike follows his fingers with his cock, pressing inside Tim, filling him up. His eyes don’t stray from Tim’s face as he starts to move, thrusting inside, deeper and deeper still. Mike’s hand finds Tim’s, linking fingers beside his head.

Mike’s thrusts leave Tim breathing heavier and heavier, Mike’s hardness splitting him open, filling him. 

“Easy,” Mike reassures, but it doesn’t stop Tim’s heart from racing, arousal spreading in his body like butter on hot gingerbread. He lets Mike lead the pace, responding in earnest.

Tim reaches down with his other hand to palm himself, playing with his balls before jerking himself off vigorously.

Mike reaches between their bodies, wraps his hand around Tim’s, and strokes him off until he’s close. “You’re mine,” Mike murmurs, a little more emphatic than he means to, and that does it. Tim spills over their joined hands, body tensing and releasing in pleasure as he comes.

Tim spreads his legs a little wider, brings Mike a little closer, and Mike keeps fucking him, getting his hands on Tim’s slim hips, pulling him harder onto his cock.

“I’m not going to last much longer,” Mike warns sheepishly. 

“C’mon,” Tim pants breathlessly, gripping Mike’s arms. “Need you,” he murmurs. “Need you so bad.”

Mike lowers his head for a kiss. “You have me,” he promises, following it up with a powerful thrust, and another, his motions becoming deeper and slower, and then Mike is finishing inside Tim, burying his face in Tim’s neck as he comes.

Tim’s arms wrap around Mike, keeping him there, pressed skin to skin, like he’s afraid to let go.

After, Mike holds him, and whispers into his hair. “You’ll be the undoing of me,” he says, fingers dancing across his skin until Tim falls asleep.

*

The morning sun filters into the one-room house through the little window by the wood stove. Tim stirs, thinking he hears Mike talking.

“Were you talking to me?” Tim asks, sleepy, turning his face against Mike’s chest. 

“No,” Mike answers, hand coming up to graze Tim’s hair, hoping to calm him back into restfulness.

“Who you talking to?” Tim murmurs, voice thick with sleep. 

“Leave it,” Mike says. “It’s stupid.”

Tim opens one eye and stares. “Were you _praying_?”

“Don’t look at me that way.”

“So you won’t go to church but you’ll pray?”

“Well,” Mike says, looking at the roof, eyes drawn to the spot Tim had helped him repair. “I thought God gave me a wife and a daughter and a family - and then he took it away, and I didn’t have much to believe in, or anything to pray for. But then he put you in my life.”

Mike catches Tim’s chin between his fingers, looks into Tim’s shining blue eyes. His touch is tender, a familiar caress.

“I’m not sure what I believe,” Tim admits. “If there is a God, then I’m grateful I found you before I kept going west because I never would have stopped,” Tim whispers breathlessly, and then Mike is kissing the words from his lips.

Tim settles against Mike’s chest. “I wandered thousands of miles and all I needed was to be held by a strong pair of arms,” Tim chuckles. It just feels right.

“Maybe not any pair,” Mike adds, leaning down. Their mouths meet in a kiss. 

They stay in bed together until their stomachs growl so loudly they can’t ignore them any longer.

Tim drums his fingers against Mike’s bare chest. “Do you have any flour?”

“In a jar in the cupboard.”

“Sugar?” Mike nods.

“Eggs?”

“Maybe one or two left. Fresh ones in the coop, probably.”

Tim kisses Mike before leaping up. “Stay put.”

Mike watches him from bed as Tim pulls on his pants and suspenders and starts to whip up a batch of flapjacks. For a man that eats so much, he sure is skinny.

The scene is so… normal. How did they wind up so lucky?

When the pancakes are ready, Mike joins Tim at his table for breakfast. All the strife of pioneer life feels worth it for this, for one moment of this. 

“You’re a good man,” Mike tells Tim over breakfast. He knows Tim won’t believe it.

“Just a man,” Tim replies.

Tim keeps Mike entertained with stories of the trek to Illinois over breakfast, and Mike listens to it all.

“You’re awful quiet. What are you thinking?” Tim asks.

“When I was a boy, my parents used to tell me about two cowboys with neighboring farms. The two men put a house right on the line between the the two farms and lived together. They put one bed against each wall, so that they would each be sleeping on their own property.” 

“Is that what you’re proposing?”

“Well… I don’t see a need for two beds. Mine’s plenty big for the both of us.”

A smile grows on Tim’s face. “I reckon I could stay a while.” He bumps his knee against Mike’s under the table.

“I think you should stay a whole lot longer than that,” and his word seems to settle it, this time.

Tim does the washing up after breakfast. There hasn’t been one single time he’s had to clean up since he met Tim, Mike thinks idly. 

Mike steps up behind the taller man and wraps his arms around his waist. He drops a kiss on the back of his neck.

Tim dries off his hands and covers Mike’s with his own, all the while looking out the window at the endless prairie. 

Mike follows his pensive gaze. 

For the first time in his life, Tim is content with the view, instead of feeling a need to ride off into the unbroken sky. _This_ is the place where he would prosper. A patch of land, a spot to hang your hat, and a pair of arms to come back to at the end of the day. That’s what makes a home.


	2. You'll Be Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim and Mike think their little house on the prairie is complete - but there's room for one more.

The summer of 1876 sees Tim McVeigh and Mike Fortier falling hard and fast for each other as they quickly adapt to the rhythm of their new life. Tim moves in to Mike’s little house, helping him lay seed for the winter wheat at the start of September.

By the harvest, Tim’s coming up with a new plan for the farm, which now consists of both their plots of land. “We keep planting wheat without ever changing the seed, it’s going to damage the soil,” he insists. “We should rotate the crop. Corn. Soybean, maybe.”

Mike takes Tim’s word, as he so often does. Sure enough, the cornstalks are knee-high by the Fourth of July. It’s ready to pick by the end of August, and the crop is bountiful.

*

Winter rolls around, and both men are grateful for the break from the fields. There are still chores that must be done to keep the farm in working order, but ones that seem less painful with a companion.

Mike and Tim are mucking out the stables when they hear a peculiar noise.

“You hear that?” Mike asks.

Tim follows the sound to the back of the barn. Something catches his eye in a pile of hay.

“Oh no,” Mike comments, realizing Tim’s found two little kittens. They can’t be more than two weeks old, tiny little things. “Where’s their mother?”

“Please, you can’t — you can’t get rid of them, they won’t make it through the night.” It _has_ been awful cold lately.

When Tim looks up, blue eyes shining, he seems upset, worried that Mike might want to do the worst. Tim surprises Mike sometimes - as tough as he is, there’s an undeniable compassionate streak.

Tim keeps talking, trying to convince Mike. “They’ll keep the rats out of the barn when they’re older.” He’s determined to save them.

“Fine. Bring ‘em in the house,” Mike finally agrees. “But you have to clean up after them.”

Tim picks up the kittens and cradles them to his chest. He brings them both inside and sets up a little nest for them near the fire, reassuring them with whispers and friendly touches every time they let out confused little mewls.

If Mike knows anything about Tim, there’s no doubt he’ll be in the barn tomorrow rigging together some kind of box for the kittens.

“They must be starving,” Tim remarks, stroking the calico kitten’s tiny body. Her head is about as big as Tim’s thumb.

Tim leaves the kittens alone for a moment to grab a jar of milk off the table and a paintbrush from Mike’s toolbox.

Mike watches as he cleverly dips a corner of the brush in the milk and offers it to the kitten, holding the animal to his chest to keep it warm as he feeds it. To Mike’s surprise, it works.

“What do you think she weighs?”

“Not more’n a cup of green beans,” Tim replies, still looking at the cat. She laps at the paintbrush hungrily until there’s milk all over her face. “Here,” he says, picking up the orange kitten and thrusting her against Mike’s chest.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Just keep him warm.”

Mike mimics Tim.

After the calico’s had her fill, Tim nudges Mike. “Trade,” he requests, and he scoops the calico into Mike’s arms so he can pick up the orange kitten and try feeding it. The second kitten seems just as hungry, tiny pink tongue lapping at the milk.

“You can sleep,” Tim offers, recognizing Mike’s tired eyes. “I got this.”

Mike considers it for a moment, but decides to sit down beside his lover, calico kitten still held between his hands. The kitten lets out a concerned, high-pitched mewl and Tim is reaching over to stroke her little head with his thumb, and it’s barely an instant before the cat in Mike’s hands quiets back down.

“We’ve got you now,” Tim reassures the little animal, before returning his attention to the starving orange kitten in his arms. 

Mike must be just as tired as the kittens, because he drifts off, wakes up embarrassingly with his head in Tim’s lap. There’d be hell to pay with his back later. Tim’s got both kittens tucked into the crook of his left arm, keeping them close, his other arm tucked across Mike’s chest.

Mike yawns. “Bed?”

Tim lets go of Mike so he can get up. “I’ll stay with them. It’s too cold.”

Mike sighs and holds his hand out. “Damn it. Come on.”

Tim takes his hand and follows him into bed, kittens still balanced in his grip.

They’re barely in bed before Tim’s out like a light too, both kittens curled up on his chest. 

*

By springtime they have a new neighbor living halfway between their homestead and the town. She’s an unmarried young woman living alone, and Mike and Tim realize after a few months that she’s obviously with child. 

The two men make a point of checking in on their neighbor every so often, given her situation, once they find out there’s no father or family to be heard of. Stranger things happen. Life alone on the prairie can be tough, as they both know. It’s no extra trouble to stop in on the way from town to Mike’s farm, so that’s what they do.

As they approach the door to the neighboring cabin, they hear a loud wail. They lock eyes in worry - it’s the undeniable sound of a baby.

Tim knocks and pushes the door open.

“Oh, hell.”

Horrified, Mike’s first instinct is to cover his face. Tim can’t look away.

Their dark-haired neighbor is lying in bed white as a sheet, limbs stiff, eyes unmoving. Beside her, a baby wiggles in the blankets.

“We’ve got to do something, Mike.”

“Tim —”

“It’s a girl,” Tim says, looking down into her wide eyes. Mike’s seen that look on his face before. “She’s probably hungry.”

“She won’t survive without her mother,” Mike warns, his tone serious.

Tim can’t stop himself from reaching for the baby anyway, winding the blanket more tightly around her to keep her warm.

“We have to try,” Tim finds himself saying, cradling the baby to his chest. 

“Tim,” Mike tries to argue. She needs a doctor or a preacher or… somebody else. Not them.

“What are we supposed to do? Leave her on someone’s doorstep?”

“It’s not our problem.”

“It’s not a _problem_ , it’s a little girl.” The baby has settled, following Tim’s fingers. “What are we going to call her?” Tim asks.

“What do you mean, what are we going to call her?”

“She needs a name,” Tim insists, not looking up from the baby’s tiny face. He’s walking around the tiny cabin with her pushed tightly against his chest, rocking her slowly.

Mike sighs, a worried sound that draws Tim’s attention. “She’s not our baby. You can’t keep her.”

“If we don’t help her, who will?”

Mike shakes his head. It’s not their job. Tim is always coming to the rescue, and now this seems no different. 

But he has a point. If they don’t help this little girl, there might not be anyone else. They couldn’t just leave her here.

Mike takes a deep breath and despite his better judgment, lets his trust in Tim guide him. “Well, I let you keep the kittens, didn’t I?”

Tim smiles gratefully before returning his attention to the baby.

“Ruby,” he says softly.

“What?”

“We’ll call her Ruby.”

*

Tim nurses the baby back to health the same way he cared for the kittens in the barn. At times he ignores the work in the fields and his household chores in favor of tending to Ruby. Tim’s a natural with the little girl, somehow an instinctual caregiver, falling into the role with ease. 

Ruby seems to like Tim as much as he likes her. Mike can’t ever tell which one of the two has the bigger smile on their face.

Despite her fascination with Tim, she even tries to get Mike’s attention, always reaching her little hands out with interest, trying to grab his long hair more often than not (always more accessible than Tim’s cropped crew cut, which was no fun at all for Mike or Ruby). 

Mike puts up with it.

*

Tim’s an early riser, which is a good thing now that there’s a baby in the house, but sometimes the kid has no respect for the evening hours at all. If she wakes Mike up before the rooster crows one more time this week he’s just going to move permanently into the hayloft.

Today, when Mike wakes up, he sees the situation handled. Tim’s sitting in the rocking chair that’s sat empty for years, soothing the baby in his arms. She’s not making a sound. The image is so familiar, so painful, that Mike has to shut his eyes.

Once upon a time it had been Lori in that chair, Kayla in her arms.

Mike pushes the image from his mind. He gets up to make a cup of coffee. Tim ought to be in the fields, so he focuses on that instead.

“So you’re just going to stay inside with her from now on? What about the fields? The land?”

Tim looks up. “Well, if you’d agree to watch Ruby once in a while, then I _could_ work in the fields, and accomplish twice as much, besides.”

“Are you saying I’m lazy?”

“No, Mike. I’m talking about your shoulder, damnit.”

Ruby starts crying. Tim starts rocking her gently, offering her a finger to play with. She wraps her little hand around his knuckle.

“I know we can do this,” Tim promises. Mike’s not sure what he means. The kid, the land, life. All of it.

_We._

*

Some nights are harder than others. The nights that Ruby stays awake making fussy cries are the worst. The sleeplessness leads to delirium, sometimes.

They take turns rising with the baby, speaking to her and rocking her and feeding her and trying everything they can think of. 

“She’s hungry,” Mike grumbles, recognizing the specific sound. He pushes Tim out of bed. It’s his turn.

“I look at Ruby and sometimes I just see her,” Mike admits one night, drunk, collapsing in bed around the witching hour. He hasn’t slept a wink in almost two days.

Tim usually relies on Mike’s inner fortitude, but tonight he’s the one to pull Mike to his chest, running his fingers through Mike’s shaggy hair until he passes out.

“That’ll change,” Tim promises. It will. It has to.

*

Tim’s always trying to teach Ruby something, even if she’s too young to understand what he’s communicating. Tim carries her through the house and the yard and the barn, showing off the garden, the horses, the barn cats, the whole wide world. She’s happy and healthy and interested in everything. 

Where Mike used to avoid the pair of them, he now finds himself making excuses to be outside so he can spy on their activities.

Mike feels himself falling even harder for Tim, if it’s possible.

Tim’s got a bright smile on his face as he tickles Ruby, but when he looks up at Mike’s face, there’s an even brighter smile waiting for him.

*

Mike sleeps through a few nights but keeps waking up alone in the middle of the night. He doesn’t notice where they’ve gone until he hears Tim’s quiet voice singing a nursery rhyme to Ruby just outside the door. 

Mike feels a pang in his heart. He pushes open the door a crack.

“ _If that mockingbird don’t sing, Papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring._ ”

Mike realizes suddenly that Tim’s been wrapping the baby in blankets and carrying her outside so her fits don’t disturb Mike’s slumber.

Mike follows Tim outside. He steps behind him and wraps his arms around Tim, swallowing Tim and Ruby in an embrace. Mike looks down at Ruby’s pretty face from over Tim’s shoulder. She seems so little in Tim’s arms sometimes.

Her eyes open, looking up at the two men who have become her fathers.

“There,” Tim says proudly. “Did you see it?”

“What?” Mike murmurs against the back of Tim’s neck.

“Did you see her smile?”

“She’s always smiling… when she’s not screaming, that is.”

Tim can feel Mike smiling against his neck as he says it, though.

“But that one’s yours,” Tim responds confidently. “She only smiles that way at you.”

Mike realizes, heart thudding in his chest, that he wants to catalogue her smiles, too. Side by side with Tim, he wants to hear Ruby’s first word, see her take her first step, watch her grow.

*

Mike pulls out his fiddle one day, mostly to fill his head with the sound of something other than Ruby’s cries. The music seems to soothe Ruby, too, so Mike experiments with lullabies until he finds the right tune. It’s one he’s played for Tim countless times before.

Tim keeps an eye on Ruby as he rocks her to sleep, placing her in her crib when she settles. When Tim looks to Mike, his face bears a tired but grateful look.

Mike puts down the fiddle and fills his arms with Tim instead. The kiss they share is warm and reassuring. Mike stands there and holds him for a long time, remembers how solid he feels underneath his fingertips, stable.

It’s been weeks since they’ve touched each other like this. 

Mike unbuttons Tim’s shirt and slides it from his shoulders. Mike’s own shirt isn’t far behind. He leaves them in a pile on the floor but Tim’s too tired to care. 

It feels good to spend the time on each other. Skin to skin, it’s hard to say who hits the bed first. They tangle together completely, legs and bodies and souls.

Mike’s in no rush for anything, pressing his lips to Tim’s collarbone, to his neck, to that place behind his ear that makes him curl his toes and reach helplessly for Mike.

Tim takes Mike’s face in his hands and kisses him, slow and sweet. A heat builds inside Mike and all he can do is keep his arms around Tim and kiss him back, feeling drunk off the taste of him.

Exhausted, Tim starts falling asleep mid-kiss, impossibly endearing. 

Mike hugs Tim to his chest, and sleep comes only after they are wrapped up in each other’s arms.

*

Tim wakes with confusion, trying to get his bearings. As he rises from his nap, he realizes it’s actually the first one he’s had in weeks. It feels like he hasn’t caught a break since Ruby had come into their lives.

Tim wipes the sleep from his eyes, turning on his side, realizing why the house is so quiet.

Mike’s in the rocking chair, holding Ruby in his lap. He’s entertaining her quietly, keeping her distracted so Tim can sleep. 

Tim stretches out, stretches his arms above his head and curls his toes into the covers. Sitting up, he pulls his suspenders back over his shoulders.

Tim quietly watches Mike and Ruby with a smile. He walks over and kisses Mike on the forehead then pours himself a drink of water.

*

“I found this,” Mike says out of the blue one day. 

Tim looks up from where he’s playing on the floor with Ruby.

Mike’s holding a little dress, tiny cornflowers printed on the fabric. It must have belonged to Kayla.

“I thought Ruby…”

Tim smiles. He scoops up Ruby, pulls her into his lap. “What do you think, half-pint? Would you like a pretty new dress?”

Ruby babbles a response that makes no sense to Mike, but Tim apparently understands it. They have a whole world of conversations that Mike can’t follow. He looks up at Mike after a moment. “You don’t have to.”

He shrugs. “It’s no use to anyone in a box.” Mike sits on the floor beside Tim and Ruby. “I’ve been cranky,” he admits, not making eye contact with Tim, still feeling ashamed.

“Yeah,” Tim agrees.

“It’s hard, sometimes, seeing you with her,” he continues, knowing he can be honest with Tim.

“I know.” Tim covers Mike’s hand with his own. “I don’t want it to be. It doesn’t have to be.”

“It’s not because I’m scared of raising her,” Mike explains. “But it scares me how much I want that _with you_. I never thought… With Lori there were whole months we knew she was expecting. I had time to get used to the idea. It’s not like… well, it’s like one day we just woke up and there Ruby was.”

“We saved her life.”

“ _You_ saved her life, Tim. Sometimes I see how good you are with her and I just… maybe if I’d been better, if I’d known more… maybe Kayla…” Mike can’t finish the sentence.

Tim can’t bear the thought. He can’t bear Mike’s guilt. He presses his lips to Mike’s, tries to kiss the sadness away. “It’s not your fault, Mike.” 

Mike pulls back from the kiss, fingers laced with Tim’s. “I need you to know —” He looks down at Ruby before locking eyes with Tim. “I’ll take care of you both until the day I die. Tim, you have to know that.”

Tim leans in to kiss Mike again. “That’s convenient,” Tim smiles into the kiss. “I was planning on growing old with you.”

*

As she gets older, Ruby develops a fascination with pulling the cats' tails in lieu of anything else to bide her time. She becomes relentless.

“I’ve got to find a way to distract her,” Tim moans.

A few days later Mike presents Ruby with a little wooden horse he’d carved in the barn. 

“Dada,” Ruby cries when Mike hands her the toy, tiny hands still flailing. 

“I think she wants you,” Tim smiles, passing her to Mike, who accepts her with a surprised embrace.

“But I’m not — you’re her father,” Mike stutters, looking into Ruby’s unknowingly trusting eyes.

“Well…” Tim starts. “I kind of hoped she might call me Pa. But she’s still having trouble with her P’s.”

Mike’s eyes glitter with something - definitely not tears. He kisses the top of Ruby’s head and balances her in one arm so he can yank Tim closer and kiss him.

Mike’s eyes drift back to Ruby. “She’s got the sweetest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Tim changes the subject before Mike gets too emotional. “Are you going to complain if I teach her to shoot?”

“I figured you would,” Mike shrugs. “She’s our daughter. She’ll hold a gun before she can hold a pen.”

“Our daughter,” Tim repeats softly, so low Mike barely hears it. He kisses Mike’s cheek.

“Hrm? What was that for?” Mike asks, still holding them both close to his heart.

“Nothing,” Tim smiles. “No reason at all.”


	3. The Long Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this situation is pretty unlikely given the setting, but I appreciate your suspension of disbelief. Thanks for reading!
> 
> There’s a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5PFK1FoIwFad9yNgOhEhg1) now.

The simple wooden house sits in an open field of grass on the prairie. Not too far from the home is a barn, and beside that, a small chicken coop, both surrounded by a split-rail fence that had been built by Mike and Tim together. At the end of the fence, two apple trees stand proudly. Purple sage dots the horizon.

Mike’s land surrounds the little house as far as the eye can see, wheat fields for miles. Just beyond it lies Tim’s land (more of the same), though no matter whose name is on the paperwork at the land office, they share it all now.

Their pioneer homestead is modest, but they’ve built so much of it together that it feels like a kingdom.

*

Soon railway lines will criss-cross every scrap of America. Tim picks up occasional work for Rock Island, laying track and blasting rock for the railroad company. It’s decent money, although the job requires Tim to be gone for weeks at a time. Tim insists it’s a good thing, and he claims that being away can only take the heat off of him and Mike.

Tim sends a letter home every week, reassuring Mike of his good health and describing the west. Mike likes the way he writes, but he misses him, and Ruby does too. It’s getting harder than it used to be, watching Ruby have to miss him.

Tim’s letters are descriptive and sometimes wild. His most recent letter describes a giant rock that stood in the railroad’s path and the three hundred barrels of explosives it took to blast it away. They use blasting oil instead of dynamite - nitroglycerin mixed with clay, topped with mercury fulminate blasting caps. The mercury fulminate alone is highly volatile, and the entire process is extremely dangerous. Mike fears for Tim’s life constantly. It’s not unheard of to lose ten men in one blasting accident.

Mike can’t contain his excitement when he reads Tim’s latest letter, sharing the news with Ruby right away. 

“Your Pa’s coming home.”

*

Tim arrives a day or two after his letter. Mike is working in the fields when he returns - he knows the silhouette the moment Tim rides up in the afternoon sun.

Mike tries not to get all namby-pamby as Tim approaches, though his heart is pounding in his chest.

“Hello there, handsome stranger,” Mike greets.

Tim kisses him so hard he knocks the hat right off his head.

“Did you get my letters?” Tim asks right away. He’s always so diligent in sending them. 

“They don’t hold a candle to the real thing,” Mike tells him, pulling him into a hug. “I’m always pleased to see you haven’t blown yourself up.”

“I know what I’m doing,” Tim cringes. “You’re right, though, it’s not the same.” Hand on Mike’s neck, he kisses him fondly. “Where’s our little girl?”

“Playing inside. She’s going to lose it when she sees her Pa’s home.”

Tim beams. “We’ll continue this later.” He pushes his way inside. “Ruby!”

“Pa!”

Tim scoops Ruby up. “Hey there, half-pint. How’s my girl?”

“I missed you, Pa!”

“Not as much as I missed you,” he says, kissing the top of her head. “Did you take good care of your father for me?”

“The best.”

“Attagirl!”

It’s a happy reunion. They always are.

The sunlight streaming through the window catches Tim’s face and Mike catches his cheek in his hand. Their kiss is deep and longing, one that would have led somewhere (the bed, most likely), if it wasn’t for Ruby observing and sticking out her tongue.

“Sorry, kiddo, I’ll try to rein it in. You know how much I missed your Pa.”

“It’s okay,” she sighs, and both parents hide their smiles. 

“Why don’t we go fishing today?” Mike asks, not wanting to let go of Tim. “Forget work for a while. Just spend some time together.”

“Great idea. Do nothing the whole day.”

“You don’t have to mock me.”

“I’m not. I’m serious. I could go for a dip.”

Mike puts some lunch together and Tim helps Ruby get ready. Her hair’s longer now, by almost an inch. How does it grow so fast? She seems taller, and when Tim stands her up by the door to measure her height, it’s a sure thing. He makes a new hashmark in the wood and records her height. How time flies.

“Hey Mike! Come over here.”

Mike obeys, wondering what he needs. Tim pushes him against the doorway, marking a tally at the top of his head and notching an **M** with his knife. 

Tim kisses Mike’s forehead and spins them around so his back is against the wall. Hands on Mike’s hips, he reels him in closer.

Mike takes the knife from Tim’s fingers and etches a line to mark Tim’s height on the frame, tallest of them all. It’s silly, but now all three of them have a notch on the wall. 

Mikes pulls away but Tim doesn’t let him go, hands in his suspenders. They fall into another kiss. It gets awful quiet, and Ruby’s waiting there when they stop.

Ruby sticks out her tongue, and they pull apart with big smiles on their faces.

*

Today’s the perfect day to settle in their usual spot in the grove by the fishing hole. It’s shady and comfortable. 

Tim’s shoes are off before Mike can set his belongings down. He scoops up Ruby and carries her to the creek, setting her down at the edge of the water. Tim holds her tiny hand and walks her to the cool water, helping her balance on the rocks. She’s having the time of her life, even when a frog jumps up and startles her. Tim catches her before she falls into the water. Tim’s always there to catch her.

Mike’s sitting on the bank now, fishing poles ignored so he can watch his husband with their daughter. This never gets old. 

Tim scrambles over to Mike, looping his arms around Mike’s waist and leaning his chin on Mike’s shoulder. “Not fishing?”

“Just watching the two of you,” Mike admits. He turns his head to capture Tim’s mouth in a kiss.

“You do that a lot.” Tim grins.

“Let me look.”

Tim kisses his scruffy cheek. “It’s not like we’re going anywhere.”

“You never know with you,” Mike points out. 

Mike pulls him down into the grass, in the daisies, and presses his lips to Tim’s. They trade slow kisses until Mike sits up out of habit to check on Ruby. She’s right where they left her. 

Satisfied, Mike grabs a fishing pole and bait and picks a flat rock by the water to settle onto. Maybe he could teach Ruby to fish one day. Though she’s a girl, she likes getting her hands dirty. She’s spunky and keeps up with the challenges her obstinate fathers throw at her. 

Tim joins him on the rock, except instead of a fishing pole he’s got Ruby in his arms. “She wanted to watch her Daddy fish,” Tim explains. “Hold still, sweetheart.”

He smoothes her braids down and settles her on his lap. Her braids had always been uneven at first, but Tim’s an expert now. Another thing he’d figured out after a long series of trial and error.

“We’ve got to hold still or we’ll scare the fishies,” Tim explains to her.

Mike takes a wriggling worm and hooks it. Instead of being grossed out, she smiles. That’s their girl. 

“You have to watch your fingers on the hook,” Mike shows her, holding it so she can see how sharp it is. 

Mike casts his line.

“Where’s the fish?” Ruby asks after a moment.

Mike grins. “Sometimes it takes a while. We’ve got to be patient.”

Ruby reaches over the side of the rock, trying to dangle her fingers in the water. 

Mike taps her hand. “The fish like it quiet. We want them to think we’re not here.”

She appears to ponder that statement. 

Ruby looks a little bored as they wait for the fish to bite. Half of the fun of it for Mike and Tim is sneaking away from chores and talking the day away in the safety of the grove. Maybe she’s too young to appreciate this.

Still, she’s delighted when a large fish bites the hook and Mike reels it in. She reaches out to touch the flopping thing.

“Curious little bug, aren’t you?” Tim says proudly.

“What do you say, Ruby? Another one?”

“Yes!” She sounds excited. It’s the best damn thing in the world, sharing something like this with her. She gets bored fast, though, becoming more interested in playing in the water than fishing.

“Well, one day she’ll learn. Sorry,” Tim shrugs.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mike grins in response. He could go fishing anytime. “Maybe we should teach her to look for crawdads instead?”

“Crawdads?” Ruby asks.

Tim starts to mock pinch her and she shrieks. “They’ve got the biggest claws you’ve ever seen!” Tim laughs.

Mike keeps fishing while Tim leads Ruby to the shore and shows her how to turn over rocks and look for the small creatures. She’s not quick enough to catch any yet, but Tim manages to snag a decently-sized crawdad to show Ruby.

They let it go, and Ruby returns to splashing around carelessly. 

Mike dangles his feet in the water, his eyes on Tim and Ruby’s rock hop.

Pants rolled up to his calves, Tim smiles at Mike, more golden than the sun, and Mike falls in love again.

Eventually, Tim balls his shirt up behind his head, lying down for a nap in the grass.

Ruby studies his pose and lies down the same way, hands behind her head like a mirror image of her Pa.

Mike grins and allows himself to get some fishing done. After a good break he sets his pole up in the groove of a rock so he can join Ruby, who has woken up and appears to be exploring. She’s got no aversion to the dirt, and Mike thinks maybe they should have started her fishing lesson by digging for worms. His mistake. She’s getting her hands dirty but he leaves her to it. She gets that from Tim, no doubt.

Mike turns his hat over and hands it to Ruby. There’s a blackberry bush with berries that are ripe, and picking them will give her a way to pass the time. Maybe Mike can even make a pie later. He never cared much for sweets but Tim’s got a sweet tooth, so now there’s always cake or pie at the end of the table.

Tim stirs, turning his face to the sunlight. 

“Hello, sleepyhead.”

Tim squints. “Hey. Sorry.”

“It’s a day off. Do whatever you want.”

“Sleeping on the job,” Tim sighs, color rising to his cheeks.

Mike pats his shoulder. “You’re allowed.”

Still, Tim pulls himself up. He looks at Mike’s catch. “Hey, not bad!”

“You keep me around for a couple reasons, huh?”

“Yep, that’s it exactly.” He yawns and kisses Mike’s cheek. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“We’re lucky.”

“I’m the lucky one,” Tim says, hand on Mike’s neck, pulling him into a long kiss. It’s the sort of kiss that makes Mike’s toes curl and the spark of love burn brighter.

Tim pulls him down until they’re kissing among the weeds. It’s easy and comfortable, and Mike is reminded of the way they used to come out here and neck under the oak tree for hours, hidden away from the rest of the world.

Eventually Mike manages to pull away. “Let me get an eye on Ruby.” He turns to look for her, spying her playing in the shallows.

Tim winds his arms around Mike’s waist. “You’re such a good father,” he comments proudly.

“She makes it easy.”

“Who’d have thought?” Tim wonders out loud at their situation. “A little girl.”

“Certainly took me by surprise!” Mike laughs, relaxing in Tim’s arms. “I’m glad you’re back,” Mike whispers.

Tim traces Mike’s lips with his thumb. 

“I missed you. Spent a lot of lonely nights thinking about you.”

Mike kisses him.

“You can sweet talk me all you want,” he stubs up. “You belong here. With us.”

“I know I do, Mike. But think of the money. Think of how much work in the fields it would take to bring in the cash from one railroad job.”

“Ruby needs her Pa here,” Mike says, trying guilt. 

“She’s got you! You’re an excellent father.”

“Something could happen to you out there. All those explosives. You could get hurt.”

“You worry too much. I know what I’m doing. I’m damn good at it.”

“I’m afraid one day you won’t come home.”

“I’ll always come home to you.” Tim kisses the worried look from Mike’s face.

*

Mike and Ruby both delight in having Tim back at home. Mike’s grown used to sleeping beside him and most of all, he hates fielding questions from Ruby about where her Pa is. At first she was too young to really notice or care that he was gone. As she gets older, explaining things gets harder, especially when Mike doesn’t understand it himself.

The visits to their house on the prairie seem to become shorter and shorter as work on the railroad picks up. It’s good money, but it comes with the pain of separation.

This time, it almost seems like Tim is leaving before he really gets back.

The night before Tim is meant to start a new job, Mike makes everyone sandwiches for supper. He’s too maudlin to prepare a home-cooked meal even though he knows he probably should. 

After they eat, Ruby sees Tim’s rucksack in the corner and her face falls.

“Pa? Did I do something bad?”

“What are you talking about, Ruby?”

“You’re going away again.”

“No, half-pint, no,” Tim says, his heart sinking. “It’s not like that — you’re _perfect_.” Tim picks up Ruby and sets her in his lap. “You’re the most perfect little girl in the whole West.” He brushes Ruby’s hair out of her face. “Sometimes your Pa goes away to earn money, so he can take care of you and Daddy.”

Mike swallows, something painful seizing in his chest at their conversation. Mike knows their little girl feels this way, and he hates always having to explain why Tim is gone. It’s hard to take. Mike promises Ruby that Tim is coming back every single time but it feels hopeless. 

Mike steps outside into the cool night air with his pipe. Tim could handle this conversation for once. He spies on the two through the window; watching Tim tell her a story as he puts her to bed.

Tim joins him outside later, collapsing into Mike’s arms.

“You should sleep. You have an early morning,” Mike says against his cheek.

“I’m not going.”

“What?”

“I can’t. I didn’t think — It’s tearing her up,” Tim says, distraught.

“She’s not the only one,” Mike says quietly.

“I’ve been selfish.” Tim’s not usually a very apologetic person.

“You’ve been taking care of your family. I know you don’t leave because you’re unhappy.”

“I should be here instead,” Tim sulks. “I never should have done this to us.” It’s just the same as what his mother used to do to their family. How could he be so blind?

Mike kisses his temple. “Trying to pin you down is like trying to put the wind in a cage,” he tells him. “Nobody is mad at you.”

“Well, I’m mad at myself,” he replies, voice muffled against Mike’s shirt. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.”

Mike holds him, stroking his back until he begins to sag against Mike’s chest. “Come to bed,” Mike asks.

Tim looks into his brown eyes and finds it easy to acquiesce.

Tim rests his head on Mike’s chest after they crawl in bed together. “I’ll figure something out. Don’t worry about the money,” he rumbles against his chest.

“I never do. I worry about you,” Mike says into his hair. He gathers him closer, and they sleep.

*

In the morning, Tim is gone.

Mike sits up quietly, realizing Tim must have changed his mind. The call of the open road is too much. 

Mike puts on a pot of coffee but can’t summon the ability to lift the mug to his lips. He’s staring into the murky liquid when Tim opens the door.

“Tim!”

“What’s the matter? You look pale,” Tim says curiously.

“I’m fine.”

“Thought I’d go into town to tell Andy the German I wouldn’t be able to join ‘em.”

“Of course,” Mike swallows.

“You thought I left again,” Tim supplies, watching Mike not drink his coffee. “You can say it,” Tim shrugs, eyes downcast.

After a quiet moment, Tim pulls off his hat and hangs it by the door. He gets on knees in front of Mike. He takes Mike’s left hand between his own and looks deep into his eyes.

“Marry me.” 

They’re the last words Mike expects to hear coming out of Tim’s mouth. Is this a joke?

Stunned, Mike finally speaks. “That is… not how it works. Besides, we’ve already got a house. And a kid. Even if it was allowed, wouldn’t this be a little backwards?”

“I thought all of that was enough to show you how I felt. It’s not.”

“Does it mean anything if nobody knows?”

“We’ll know,” Tim insists. “I want to be bound to you. Completely yours.”

 _You already are_ , Mike thinks. It’s as if there’s a cord binding his heart to Tim’s, and it’s been that way since the day they met.

“I know we can’t have no wedding or shivaree or nothing like that, and it’s not official, but it is to me. I’ll write your name with mine in my grandfather’s Bible, beneath the names of every other pair of lovers recorded through time.”

Mike’s hand in his, Tim starts reciting the standard wedding vows.

“With this ring, I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow…” It’s so absurdly formal. “Dangit, it means everything I have is yours. Forever, Michael Fortier.”

“I don’t _have_ a ring,” Mike says stupidly, but he laughs. Tim McVeigh is on his knees in front of him talking about marriage. “I love you, I do,” Mike tells him, the feeling blooming like a flower within him, and it’s the truest thing he knows. “I love you.”

*

“Are you spying on me?” Tim asks, unable to resist Mike’s presence in the barn any longer.

“You caught me,” Mike admits, stepping into Tim’s workspace. “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time out here lately.”

Tim wipes his hands on his trousers and takes Mike’s scruffy face between them, kissing him soundly.

“That’s because I’ve been working on your wedding present.”

“Wedding present?”

Tim pulls up the canvas and reveals his construction underneath.

“Is a yoke too on the nose?”

It’s so like Tim to speak in metaphors, and to craft a beautiful gift that had as much meaning as it does purpose. 

Mike draws him nearer until they’re captured in a still embrace in the barn. “ _I love it_ ,” Mike whispers against Tim’s cheek, or maybe it’s “ _beloved_.”

*

On a whim, Tim prepares for a harsh winter, stocking supplies for all three of them. To some his preparedness might seem excessive, but it brings Mike such a sense of security that he can’t say a damn thing. Tim guarantees they won’t starve, storing smoked pork, beef jerky, all kinds of fruits and vegetables, cornmeal, and of course, apples from their trees. 

Mike loves the sight of Tim chopping firewood, finding excuses to watch him as he does it, staring at the way his long fingers curl around the handle and his muscles tense under the sleeve of his shirt as he brings the axe down to split the wood with a crack.

*

The snow begins falling after nightfall.

Mike stands at the window, watching everything become a blur of white as snow swirls around outside. 

Ruby’s eyes are trained on the front door, where snow is blowing in underneath. The white flakes tumble across the floor, then a particularly strong gust of wind blows the door open.

Mike’s solution is to nail the damn thing shut. After the job is done, Mike fixes two steaming mugs of coffee, offering one to his husband. Before Tim can take the mug, Ruby makes a beeline for Tim.

“I’m scared, Pa,” Ruby cries.

“It’ll be okay, Ruby,” he tells her, gathering her up in his arms. “It’s just a storm.”

Her eyes are wide. The wind whistling outside sounds frightening.

“Maybe we can make snowmen tomorrow,” Tim says, trying to encourage her. She doesn’t seem convinced.

“I could make some popcorn,” Mike offers.

Tim smoothes down Ruby’s hair. “What do you think? Bedtime snack?”

Ruby nods and rests her head back against Tim’s chest, watching Mike move around the tiny kitchen through her worried eyes. Out of a Mason jar, he gathers a pot and some kernels of corn, cooking them over an open flame until they begin to pop.

The first popping kernel takes Ruby by surprise, but the noise begins to distract her from the storm. Tim starts to clap off-beat and encourages her to do the same, until their clapping hands sound just like the popping corn. Even Mike joins in until all three are clapping wildly along with the popcorn.

It’s a pretty good distraction.

Mike pours the finished popcorn into a large bowl, then adds another log to the wood stove while he’s at it.

It’s an okay way to turn a tough night into something more enjoyable. _At least we’re all here together_ , Mike thinks as they snack on the popcorn.

“I feel like going camping,” Tim announces after gorging himself on popped corn.

Mike looks at him with a confused frown, though Ruby just peers at him curiously.

“In the snow?”

“In the house,” Tim whispers with a devilish grin. He plops Ruby in Mike’s lap and gathers a quilt off their bed. He starts to drape it around the room.

“Aren’t you going to help me build the tent?”

Ruby scrambles up to help her Pa. “What do I do?”

Tim has her hold one corner of the quilt up so he can drag a chair over and drape the quilt over the back of it.

“Can we use my blanket too?” Ruby asks, running to her bed. She comes back with a smaller quilt that they drape beside the other blanket.

“After you,” Tim gestures to Ruby, allowing her to enter the pillow fort first. She crawls in and Tim joins her. 

Ruby looks around in awe, feeling safer. She’s noticeably less preoccupied with the blizzard after Tim’s effective ploy.

“Something’s missing,” Tim tells her, but her face shows she doesn’t know what. Tim points out the “gate” of the fort. “Your father?” Tim reminds her discreetly.

Ruby sticks her head out the fort. “Daddy!”

Mike pretends to knock.

“Come in!” Ruby calls.

“No password or anything. She’s easy!”

Mike ducks so he can join them under the blankets. It’s not very comfortable, but it seems to be working, so he plays along, stealing a spot beside Tim.

Tim leans over to kiss Mike.

Ruby makes a disgusted noise and looks away from her kissing parents.

*

The storm is still howling outside in the morning.

“No snowman?”

“No snowmen,” Tim confirms. “It’s pretty bad out there. We’ll find something to do indoors.”

“Ruby, are you warm enough?” Mike asks. “Stay under the covers.”

Ruby nods.

Mike puts on a pair of gloves and his coat with the intention to explore. He finds that the ice is several inches thick. He barely makes it out the front door before he comes back into the house, hammering a nail into a board to keep the door shut once more.

“It’s a devil of a storm out there,” he says, teeth chattering.

“We’ll entertain ourselves in here.”

Tim pulls out a deck of cards and they play a few rounds of poker. Ruby, who sits on Tim’s lap the whole time, has no poker face, so they switch to Go Fish and let Ruby play her own hand. 

Tim’s got a competitive streak, and he wins every time. Mike eventually gives up, though he doesn’t let his defeat show. He leaves the game under the guise of hunger. “I’ll make us some sandwiches.”

By the time Mike returns to the table with a few egg sandwiches, Tim’s taught Ruby how to play slapjack. Mike snickers when he see her little arms flail trying to beat Tim’s thin, spidery arms. She makes a good effort but she’s no match for her Pa, who doesn’t go easy on her.

“Alright, you two, break it up,” Mike tells them, setting the sandwiches down in the center of the table. “These are the last of the eggs. Eat up.” 

“Thank you, love.” Tim speaks up when she doesn’t say thank you. “Ruby?”

“Thank you!”

The sandwiches are delicious, and dinner gives them a small way to pass the time as the wind and snow whirl outside. The storm calms for only a moment at dusk before picking up again with fervor.

Tim makes shadow puppets on the wall in the lamp light - Mike’s not sure if it’s to entertain himself or Ruby. Eventually the novelty fades, and Mike picks up his fiddle to soothe Ruby to sleep with a song. Mike had been delighted when he found out that Tim had a good singing voice. The man was now responsible for accompanying Mike’s fiddle.

Mike plays one song, and then another, and before he knows it he’s been playing for half an hour. Ruby’s been asleep for some time. Along with the music, they can hear deep cracking sounds in the distance. Must be the trees buckling under the wind.

It’s a relief to crawl back into bed with Tim and cozy up under the quilts. So cold, and so early in the season. The chill of winter’s remainder is sure to sting.

The blizzard rages for two days, the first set of several back-to-back storms that winter.

The night after, a pack of coyotes wanders by the cabin - they’ve never heard them howling this close before. 

Mike reaches for Tim, and Tim reaches for his gun.

*

It’s a hard winter. The storms don’t stop; the season is chock full of them. 

They begin eating two meals a day instead of three, and eventually they run through the carrots and squash after the flour is gone. They subsist on beans and potatoes for the rest of the winter.

Tim had stored up plenty of firewood, but the snowstorms have been so frequent there’s been no time to replenish the supply. They rely on twisted hay for warmth when they run out of kerosene, too.

A week after a slew of particularly harsh blizzards, Ruby comes down with a fever. It’s the first time she’s been sick, and Mike worries himself near to death.

Ruby tosses and turns in bed, cheeks bright red and sweat at her temples. She tries to sleep fitfully, and eventually the shivers are too much. “I don’t feel good,” she whines.

Tim dabs at her brow with a wet rag.

“Do we give her something warm or cold?” Mike frets.

“I’m not sure. Just — water?”

Ruby rolls back and forth until she cries out for her Pa. Wrapping her in a thin blanket, Tim carries her to the rocking chair where he can hold her with more ease. She’s getting bigger every day. While he’d carried rucksacks as heavy as Ruby in the war, something about having arms and legs attached made the job more difficult.

Tim helps Ruby with a drink of water, then lets her rest. She seems to be more comfortable in his arms, at least.

Even with his hands full, Tim senses Mike’s worry. There’s something deeper there underlying his concern. His free and easy manner is gone, and his eyes are full of apprehension. 

“She’ll be okay,” Tim insists. “I made you a promise.”

In the rocking chair, Ruby finally sleeps in her Pa’s arms. Her cheeks are still tinged pink with fever.

“Why don’t you get some sleep?” Tim suggests. “You’ll be fit as a fiddle in the morning, too.”

Mike tries to see it as a kind offer, not a controlling one. “Fine, okay.”

“‘Fine, okay’?”

Mike trods over to Tim. “I’m just tired.”

“I know.” Tim catches his hand and kisses his palm. “I’ve got it.”

Mike falls asleep to the sound of Tim’s lullaby.

Tim angles the rocking chair toward their bed where he can keep an eye on both Mike and Ruby. He dozes off a few times, but keeps watch for most of the night.

Mike wakes after the sun comes up.

“How’s she doing?” Mike asks, pleased to see their daughter back in her bed.

“Her fever broke early this morning,” Tim answers.

“Thank God,” Mike answers, collapsing back onto the bed.

Tim finally joins him this time, curling up beside him without changing out of his clothes. Knowing their baby is sleeping comfortably, they rest.

*

Springtime comes, later than usual, and life finally cuts them a break.

Mike still hates it when he wakes up and Tim is gone, but he’s more confident now that his absence just means he’s in the barn or in the backyard or entertaining Ruby.

This particular morning Ruby bursts through the door first, followed by her Pa.

“Come here,” Mike tells them both, and Ruby clamors onto the bed. “Where were you?”

“Feeding the ducks!”

“Oh?” Mike looks to Tim.

“Yeah, that nest near the willow tree… the eggs finally hatched. They’re a day or two old, maybe. You should have seen her face. She loved them. Right, Rubes?”

She nods happily.

“Speaking of babies… why don’t you take a look in the barn?”

A wide smile crosses Tim’s face. Tim picks up Ruby and they trek out to the barn, past their sleeping cats. The kittens that Tim had rescued years ago are old cats now, graying in their faces and at the tips of their ears, just one small part of Mike and Tim’s magnificent homestead.

Beyond the cats is their cow, and Tim can see her brand new calf in the corner. Tim boosts Ruby higher so she can see the baby.

“Look who’s a mama,” Tim crows. “Winter is officially over. Ruby, what should we name her?”

“Patrick.”

“Half-pint, the baby is a girl. You sure about that one?”

She stares back defiantly. 

Mike laughs. “If she can have two daddies, I guess we can have a cow named Patrick.”

*

Mike cooks a hearty breakfast the morning. Mike had traded several eggs to a neighbor for a few strips of bacon, which sizzle appetizingly in the cast-iron skillet. He even lets Ruby crack an egg (fishing out the broken pieces of shell when her back is turned).

Ruby has become a little helper to them both, but she loves going on Tim’s errands the most. She enjoys riding Tim’s horse Warrior with him, most of all, she loves going into town, waving to people and learning about the world.

For the ones that knew, it had come as a shock to the townspeople that the two cowboys living together were now raising a child. Tim had needed all the help he could get from kind neighbors, who helped those in doubt see that they’d saved the little girl’s life. Now Tim relies on his love for his daughter to see them through any hate - that, and his gun. He wears it high on his hip, so people can really see it. He’ll put up with petty remarks, but no one dares try anything to his face.

“I need to pick up a few supplies at the mercantile,” Tim says over breakfast.

“I want to go with Pa!”

Mike pretends to pout. “But who will help me bring in the eggs?”

“Daddy, it’s not that hard. Pa needs my help.”

Mike’s jaw drops at his daughter’s assessment. Tim is covering his face, cackling.

“Pretty soon she’ll be riding down to Miller’s Mercantile all by herself,” Tim says proudly. He lets her pick out a piece of candy each time they visit the mercantile, and she’ll probably continue to be his helper until Mike figures out Tim’s dirty ploy. Until then, it’s their little secret.

On the way into town this particular morning, Ruby is fascinated by the older children running to the schoolhouse.

“Pa? When do I get to go to school?”

“You’re already learning your letters,” Tim tells her. “You’ll be able to write your name soon.”

“I want to go to the real school. With everybody else,” Ruby supplies.

“Maybe one day. We’ll have to ask your father.”

Tim brings the subject up with Mike that night after dinner.

“Tim,” Mike warns.

“Ruby just wants to be like the other children.”

Mike won’t admit it to Tim, but the fear that someone might cause harm them or Ruby does a jig in his head. People don’t always like what they don’t understand. “All that attention… What if somebody says something to her?”

“She deserves a chance to be a normal kid.”

“Tim, I’d lose my mind if something happened to Ruby because of us.”

“So you’re going to live in fear? That’s not very American of you.”

“Tim, how is that fair?” Mike asks through clenched teeth.

“How is it fair to tell her no?”

“We tell her _something_.”

“I’ll talk to the schoolteacher about Ruby starting in the fall and sort it out. I’ll take care of it.”

Ruby’s made up her little mind, and so has Tim.

*

On the first day of school, Tim and Mike wake Ruby up, feed her a wholesome breakfast, and give Ruby her first slate and a brand new piece of chalk. 

Tim braids Ruby’s hair in two long pigtails, sets Ruby in their wagon, and takes her to the schoolhouse, dropping her off down the road so she can run in with the other children. She’s so excited she forgets to say goodbye, and Tim realizes his baby girl is growing up before his very eyes.

That day, Ruby comes home from school proud as anything. Tim thinks she’s got more courage than Mike and him put together. She’s going to take over the world.

The next day, Tim wakes up early, fixes an egg for Ruby and packs a sandwich for her lunch, and sends her off to school.

Tim lets Mike sleep through the whole morning routine, only waking him after Ruby leaves the house. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” Tim greets, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Sun’s already up.”

“Shut up, cowboy,” Mike tells him, “and kiss me.” He reaches out and grabs Tim by the front of his shirt, yanking him back into bed. He drags Tim into a hot kiss. “We don’t do this as much as we used to, huh?”

“Let’s make up for lost time,” Tim grins, and then he’s kissing a line down Mike’s neck and stripping him out of his pajamas.

Mike has resisted Ruby attending school for so long that he completely overlooked the obvious benefits, like having an empty house in the mornings.

“There’s work to be done in the fields,” Tim reminds him, “but I’d rather be here with you.” 

“I think we’ve earned it.”

Tim works his way down Mike’s body. His mouth closes over Mike, and he melts under his touch. Tim tries to make up for lost time, his tongue eager and roving, his hands touching Mike everywhere. 

Mike’s about to come when he pushes Tim off. 

“I’d like to be inside you… Can I?”

“God, yes,” Tim groans, turning on his side.

Mike uses Vaseline to open Tim up, kissing his spine as he pumps a finger inside him, then runs his fingertip gently across his rim. 

“Don’t tease me,” Tim begs. 

“Just want to make this good,” Mike murmurs in his ear.

“You always do,” Tim responds, thrusting back onto Mike’s fingers. “Come on now.”

Mike lubes up his cock and presses inside his lover. Spooning him, he starts to thrust. Mike clutches Tim’s bony hip, pulling him back on his throbbing cock. 

Tim’s hand finds Mike’s, fingers locking together. They move together, bodies as one. Tim tries to hold Mike’s body closer, yearns to keep him deep inside, filling him up, filling a need for connection, for completion.

Mike’s lips ghost over Tim’s neck, over the soft skin behind his ear. As hard as Tim’s life is, as tough as he acts, Mike knows that he’s no match for his caress - a gentle touch is the easiest way to make Tim’s rough exterior crumble.

Mike rocks his hips forward slowly, Tim taking everything he gives him.

“Is this what you need?” Mike asks quietly. “My lover, my husband, my life?”

Tim feels so stretched open, so marvelously full with Mike’s cock inside him, but it’s his words that truly lay him bare.

“Yes, yes,” Tim pants, hips undulating, trying to take Mike deeper.

Mike reaches around and thumbs the head of Tim’s cock, jacking him until Tim bucks in his grasp. Tim places his hand on top of Mike’s, lacing their fingers together as they move over his cock. He almost doesn’t need the touch, feels like he could finish just from feeling Mike inside him. 

“That’s it,” Mike says sweetly, and then Tim is spilling over their fingers with a gasp.

Tim’s muscles go limp, and Mike grips his slender hips, fucking him through his release. Mike fucks him until he feels Tim’s ass clench around his dick and then he’s reaching his own peak, coming inside Tim.

He’s slow to pull out, wanting to stay connected as long as they can.

“You make me feel like a two-bit whore,” Tim tells him breathlessly, rolling onto his back.

“You look it,” Mike whispers devilishly.

Mike’s seen him like this a hundred times, but Tim feels more naked now than ever before.

Mike takes his jaw between his hands, kissing him soundly.

“The way you look at me,” Tim marvels, mystified.

A fond smile plays at the corners of Mike’s mouth. He cocoons Tim in his arms, and Tim settles against him - a perfect fit. Work can wait a little while longer.

“And how else should I look at something so dear?”

If Mike had his way, they’d stay here forever. They have a good, simple life. They have each other. What more could they ask for?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The photo that started it all.](https://imgur.com/a/7rwnq88)


	4. To Ride, Shoot Straight, and Speak the Truth

The meadow shifts: the muted brown and green blades of prairie grass part, disguising a large brown rattlesnake slithering through the vegetation. The snake picks up speed, zig-zagging toward the chicken coop on the Fortier-McVeigh homestead.

Mike is outside picking peas in the garden with his daughter Ruby when he starts to hear nervous squawking. He drops a handful of peas in the basket and commands Ruby to hold still.

“Stay here,” Mike warns, investigating the disturbance in the henhouse. He hears it first, the familiar sinister sound of a rattler’s warning, before he lays eyes on the thing. “Shit,” he curses under his breath. Mike watches as the snake slithers closer to their chickens, striking with zeal. One bird is already dead in the corner.

“Ruby,” Mike calls sharply. “Tell your Pa to get his gun.”

Ruby obeys immediately, hiking up her skirt and running back into the house, yelling for her Pa.

Tim kneels down instantly when Ruby barges inside. “What’s the matter, half-pint?”

“It’s Daddy,” Ruby explains, huffing through pink cheeks. “There’s a - there’s a -”

“There’s a _what_ , Ruby?”

“A snake!”

Tim snaps up in an instant, getting his hands on his Winchester 73 rifle. He aims his gun as he steps out the door, spotting Mike quickly. He’s standing a few feet from the hen house.

Mike points.

Tim’s eyes follow the motion, tracking the action with his weapon. It only takes him a moment to spot the rattlesnake creeping through the grass. Aiming at the snake, he cocks the lever and presses his finger down on the trigger.

It’s a direct hit. Tim’s always been a stellar shot. The snake never stood a chance. 

Convinced the snake is done for, Tim joins Mike beside the hen house to inspect their losses. The eggs are an acceptable casualty, but the snake had done irreparable damage to at least two of the hens.

“Goddamnit,” Tim curses.

“I’ll clean it up,” Mike offers, staring at the mess of feathers and blood.

Ruby steps up behind them so softly almost neither one hears the sound of her small feet.

“Why can’t the snakes leave them alone?”

“It’s just nature,” Mike answers.

Tim lowers his rifle. “That’s the way of things, Ruby. Things die all the time.” He takes a breath to steady himself. 

Ruby’s fascination shifts from the snake to her Pa’s rifle. “Do you ever miss?”

Tim doesn’t answer, so Mike does it for him. “Your Pa is the greatest shot I’ve ever seen,” Mike tells her proudly.

Ruby smiles, and Tim beckons her closer.

“I want you to remember three things: to ride, shoot straight, and speak the truth.”

Ruby listens, and commits her Pa’s words to heart.

*

Things don’t stay calm on the farm for long.

“Tim!” Mike calls. “Have you seen Ruby?”

Tim looks up from the sawhorse. “I thought she was with you.”

Mike’s normally calm, warm eyes are burdened with alarm. “She’s missing.”

“She’s missing? What the hell do you mean?!”

Mike throws his hands up in frustration. “Tim, she’s gone. I can’t find her anywhere.”

Tim abandons his tools and follows Mike outside. “Did you call for her?”

Mike grimaces. “Yes, Tim, I called for her!” Mike keeps searching with commitment. Tim joins his frenzied search, starting with the open grass surrounding the house, then bursting inside and checking each room.

“Empty,” Tim agrees, lingering in the doorway.

Both men’s eyes settle on the path to the creek at the same moment, and an unseen force pulls them toward it.

The meadow between the house and creek somehow becomes a vast expanse, and neither man can move quick enough, running to the familiar creek bed where they often spend time together.

The scene beside the water is still. The only motion: a few butterflies in the weeds. 

Mike starts to wade into the flowing water.

Somehow, Tim knows their daughter is not here.

Tim keeps moving, searching as much ground as he can cover. He goes as fast as his legs will carry him. Finally, he finds what he is looking for.

“Mike,” Tim calls from a copse of river birch trees further down the creek.

Mike runs up and lets out a deep sigh. There’s Ruby, asleep in the grass, and close by, a small fawn dotted with white spots sleeping beside her.

Mike’s hand comes up between Tim’s shoulderblades, running softly down his back before settling at his waist. What a relief.

Tim kneels beside his daughter in the shade. Ruby’s pigtails are uneven, one chunky, one slim. Mike’s handiwork. Tim tugs one softly until she blinks her eyes open.

“Come on, wild woman.”

Ruby starts to stretch her little limbs. Tim scoops her up into his arms where she falls back asleep almost instantly.

Mike’s hand a warm, constant presence on his back, they carry their daughter home.

*

Life carries on as usual until summertime. With the heat, the summer brings a surprise - Tim’s youngest sister Jennifer sends word that she’ll be coming to town.

Tim clutches the letter with excitement, unable to wait to break the news to his family over supper. “You’ll never believe this, Mike,” he grins, excited. “Jenny’s coming to town!”

“Hell, Tim, that’s wonderful.”

“I can’t believe you’ll get to meet her.”

“You never did tell me what she was like.”

“She’s a schoolteacher. Bright, bubbly… Smart as a whip.”

“Jenny sounds great,” Mike agrees.

“It’ll be good for Ruby to have a woman to look up to,” Tim decides.

“She’ll be thrilled.”

“Yeah. I think she will.”

Tim’s spirits are high for weeks as he prepares his old house for his baby sister. By September, she’s knocking at their door.

*

Tim’s up in a flash when he hears the knock. Ruby, his constant companion, follows him to the door. Tim thrusts the door open.

“Oh my God, Tim, Ruby, hi!”

“Ruby, I want you to meet your Aunt Jenny.”

“Hello, Aunt Jenny,” Ruby says politely.

Jen gives her a hug. “It’s so nice to finally meet you.” She stands up and turns to Tim. “And you!” Jen throws her arms around Tim’s neck.

“Hey there, Jennifer,” Tim greets. “I missed you.”

“You wrote me those letters but it all didn’t feel real!” Jen covers her mouth. 

Tim’s grinning like a madman.

“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you again,” Jen tells her brother eagerly.

“We’re so glad you came. All of us.”

“Jenny, you want some tea?” Mike offers.

“Whiskey,” she corrects. “You must be Mike.”

“Nice to finally meet you, Jennifer.” Mike pauses to hug his sister-in-law before pouring her a drink. “Here you go, my dear.”

“Thank you,” she replies, accepting it gratefully.

“Sorry about that,” Tim apologizes. “This is my… Mike.”

Mike squeezes Tim’s shoulder comfortingly as he passes.

“So this is it?” Jen asks, astonished. “The house you built? The one from your letters?”

Tim nods proudly.

“You did all of this?”

“Together,” Mike answers, smiling at Tim. Their blood, sweat, and tears built this home.

“I never thought you’d get a chance to see it, Jenny.”

Tim’s sister beams. “It’s just perfect, Tim. I wish I could stay forever.”

“Well…”

Jenny looks up. “What?”

“So you’ll never believe this,” Tim starts. “The town needs a new schoolteacher. The last teacher, Mr. Nichols, is going back East to be with his son. You’d be perfect for the job!”

“Well, it… it sounds perfect, actually,” Jen says. “It’s just what I’ve been looking for.”

“So you’ll stay?”

“I’ve barely seen the town,” Jenny answers, “but yes, of course, Tim.”

“Good.”

“I’ll have to start looking for a place to live.”

“Take my old house,” Tim offers. “It’s small but it’s in good shape.”

“I couldn’t —“

Tim doesn’t have to convince his sister, because Mike steps in. “Tim would love it if you’d stay, Jenny. Please - you’ll love the old house.”

“Thank you both, really…”

Mike recognizes the hope in Tim’s eyes as he waits for his sister to answer. Pioneer life isn’t for the weak of heart - but after knowing Tim, he doubts that any McVeigh is weak of heart.

“It sounds wonderful. How could I not give it a chance?”

With Jenny’s acceptance, Tim’s heart becomes a little more whole.

*

A week later, Jenny officially becomes the town’s schoolteacher for the pay of $10 a month. Jen moves into Tim’s old house with the help of her brother and brother-in-law. With a few improvements and repairs, it’ll be right as rain. 

Ruby wanders at Tim and Mike’s heels as they help Jenny get all set up in the old house, and soon it starts feeling like a home again.

Empty cupboards begin to fill with dishes, and Ruby picks wildflowers for the vase on Jenny’s table. Jen’s a great aunt, and a better teacher. Ruby loves the woman.

“Will I get a sister too? Like Pa?”

That’s a hard question to answer. “No, honey,” Mike eventually breaks it to her, rather than germinate false hope. It’s impossible.

“Why not?”

Mike looks at Tim, who shrugs and beckons back to him. Mike will have to find a way to explain this to someone unfamiliar with the mechanics of biology.

“You’re enough for us, Ruby.”

*

Old enough to walk to school alone now, Ruby takes advantage of her newfound freedom, running back and forth between her home and Aunt Jenny’s whenever she likes. It gives Tim and Mike a welcome break. 

Tim looks exhausted when he comes in from a day of work, brightening up when he realizes Mike is the only one home.

Tim takes off his hat and kisses Mike on the cheek. “Hey you.”

Mike catches Tim’s hand and doesn’t let him go, pulling him into an embrace. “Mmm.”

“How long has it been since you’ve held me like this?” Tim asks, closing his eyes and leaning into Mike.

“Too long,” Mike answers earnestly. “ _Tim_ ,” he murmurs, the word getting lost in their kiss.

The kiss becomes urgent, and Tim unbuckles his holster, setting his pistol aside. Mike tangles his fingers in Tim’s suspenders and slips them off his shoulders. 

Still wildly caught up in the kiss, both men start to undress in a hurry until a knock at the door interrupts them.

“You expecting someone?” Tim asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Mike shakes his head no, and goes to open the door. Mike doesn’t recognize the boy standing there as one of Ruby’s little friends.

“Can I help you?”

“It’s Ruby!” the boy cries. “There’s been an accident —“

Mike grabs his hat and follows the boy. Only one thing is on his mind: rescuing his daughter.

Tim barely hears the exchange at the door, following Mike out of the house.

“What’s the matter?”

“It’s Ruby,” Mike calls back, chasing after the boy. “She’s in trouble.”

Tim doesn’t need to hear anything else.

The boy leads Mike and Tim into the woods. “This way,” he guarantees.

Mike runs ahead after the boy, Tim following close behind.

When they reach a small clearing in the woods, they don’t see Ruby, only a group of burly outlaws brandishing guns and knives. This isn’t a rescue, it’s an ambush.

A group of them - lower halves of their faces covered - descends upon Mike.

“That’s him,” the shortest man yells. “That’s one of ‘em.”

Two of the men grab Mike’s arms, yanking him backwards, as one of the other men lands a punch in his gut. It knocks his breath away.

“It ain’t right,” the bearded man spits. “Ain’t natural.”

“Get ‘im,” one of the men crows. 

The bearded man takes a noose and slips it around Mike’s neck, tightening it carefully. He gives the rope a good yank.

“Show him what we do to queers in this town,” the man threatens.

“Freak,” one man spits. He gets in another punch, bloodying Mike’s lip.

Tim catches up to the scene just as they’re stringing up Mike. He reaches for his gun. His hand grasps at air. _Dangit_ , he remembers suddenly — he’d pulled his holster off at the house when things with Mike were about to get serious.

Tim thinks fast, evaluating the situation. He punches the tallest young man without hesitation and pushes him into a second, causing them both to topple over.

Tim spins around to block a punch from the third outlaw. He grapples with him for a minute before landing a solid blow, knocking the other man to his knees. Tim clocks him in the face again, stunning him long enough so that he can reach for the man’s gun.

Aiming the pistol gets the others to back away from Mike. It gives Tim enough time to cut Mike down. He works his knife into the rope as fast as he can, freeing his husband.

Mike sinks to his knees, gasping and reaching for his throat.

Tim cocks the gun and points it toward the gang, most of whom are still recovering on the ground. 

“Get the hell out of here,” Tim warns the leader. “If I ever see your face again I’ll put a bullet in it.” He waits until the men scurry away before dropping the gun and going straight to Ruby’s side. “Ruby.” Tim checks her for injuries. “Are you hurt?”

“No, Pa,” she answers, still in shock. 

Tim hugs her to his chest, grateful to see her in one piece. He checks on Mike next, reaching for the man’s neck and shoulder. The skin is rubbed red and raw.

“Mike,” Tim cries.

“It was a trap,” Mike replies, his voice hoarse. The men had used their daughter to get to them.

“Shh,” Tim encourages. He’d need to find some water for Mike.

Ruby joins them, flinging her arms around Mike’s neck carelessly. He gathers her up in his arms.

Tim puts a hand on Ruby’s shoulder. “Tell me, Ruby. What did you say? What did you tell them?”

Ruby’s eyes widen. She rubs at her tear-stained cheeks. “All I said was that my two fathers were strong enough to mean business if they tried to hurt me,” she explains. Everything after had been a knee-jerk reaction to what the little girl had revealed.

Her innocent spirit is a strength and a downfall, Tim thinks sadly.

“Rubes,” Tim says, disappointed. He shakes his head. “You’ve got to be more careful.” Both Tim and Mike had done their best to try and explain to her why their family was different, with little success. To a child’s eye, love is love.

“Why do they hate us?” Ruby asks, pained. “What did we do to them?”

Ruby always does ask hard questions.

“Some people don’t like what they don’t understand,” Tim decides to tell her. He offers a hand to Mike and pulls him up. 

They walk together home.

*

In the coming days it becomes hard to tell which has been damaged more, Mike’s old injury or his ego.

Tim won’t let his husband or daughter out of his sight at first, watching them both like a hawk. In his spare time, he begins stockpiling guns, stashing away weapons in a trunk at the end of their bed. Tim is preparing for the worst.

All the while, the family tries to pass under the radar. Tim even thinks about sending Ruby to stay with her Aunt Jenny for a while, just until things blow over. The idea starts a fight when he brings it up with Mike.

“You want to send her away? She’s done nothing wrong!”

“She’ll be safer,” Tim insists.

“She’ll be safer with _you_. With us. You’re the best shot in the west, Tim.”

“There’s a target on our backs,” Tim warns. “We need to be ready.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know, Mike,” Tim answers, frustrated. “But we should avoid town for a while. Avoid attention.”

Mike can’t disagree with that much, but finds himself unable to comfort Tim, either. 

Ever since that day in the woods, Mike has been slipping away. Where Tim deals with the threat by being over-prepared, Mike just shrinks away in his mind. 

Eventually Tim is forced to ride into town for provisions. The hostile eyes of the preacher standing on the church stoop track Tim’s movements as he enters and exits the mercantile. Tim can sense eyes on him as he rides through town, feeling watched the whole way.

The house is empty when Tim arrives back at the homestead. He puts away the flour and sugar neatly in the cupboard, washing his hands when he finishes.

“Damn it, Ruby,” Tim curses, thinking he’s stumbled over one of her toys again. He kneels and picks up the tiny object. It’s a vial, he realizes. _Morphine_ , Tim’s brain supplies after a moment. It belongs to Mike. He’d been prescribed the drug once for his shoulder injury, but Tim never realized he’d hung onto the small jar after he’d healed.

Tim’s plan is to let Mike tell him about it before he confronts him, but when the sun starts to go down and there’s still no sign of his husband, he is forced to show his hand.

Later that night, Tim finds Mike passed out in a pile of hay in the barn.

“What the hell, Mike,” Tim gripes.

Mike’s hands seem weak as they grab for Tim. He’s got tears in his eyes. “How could they hurt a little girl? Even if they hate us?” Mike asks, desperate.

“Get yourself together,” Tim beckons.

Mike just closes his eyes and shrugs. He seems so tired.

*

October comes, and as Tim promised Ruby, things begin to die. Life is bitter and cold as winter approaches, and as the color fades from the earth, life seems to fade from Mike.

Mike turns to the opium again and again, and what began as an occasional habit turns into something gnawing and painful. Darkness doesn’t knock, it only tears down the door.

Tim watches it happen and hates it. _Love is terrible_ , he thinks to himself.

*

Autumn turns to winter, and nothing grows cold as fast as Tim’s heart. Tim bears the weight of his emotions with a numbness until the day his problems grow so enormous that Tim can no longer ignore them all.

One day Tim comes in from the fields, ready for dinner after a hard day’s work, and the house is empty - again.

Tim locates the bottle (he knows where Mike hides it, he’s not stupid) and stares at it. Eventually he just sits at the dinner table waiting for his husband.

Mike wanders in some time later.

“Honey…” Mike slurs, and Tim’s hands clench into fists. 

Tim watches Mike stagger in and sit down at the table. 

“Where’s Ruby?”

“She’s with my sister.” Tim stares at Mike. “Where’s supper?”

A look of dread slowly crosses Mike’s face. “Oh… I’m sorry,” he apologizes with empty words. 

“This is the fourth day this week there’s been no supper when I come in from the fields,” Tim says, trying not to sound petulant. It’s not about him. “We agreed this would be a partnership. Your only partner these days is _this_.” Tim holds up the jar.

Mike mumbles an excuse.

Tim refuses to hear it.

“Ruby hasn’t had lunch in a week. She loves her Daddy too much to even tell me. My sister pointed it out, Mike. My _sister_!”

Mike winces, but his tired eyes make no reply.

“Why do you need this, Mike? What am I doing wrong? Tell me, because I’ll fix it.”

“It’s… no…” Mike blinks, frustrated. “Just… get rid of it, Tim, get it out of the house.”

Tim shakes his head. “You have to,” he insists. “I can’t do this for you.”

“ _Tim_ ,” Mike complains. 

“This is a choice _you_ have to make.”

“I can’t do it,” Mike manages to breathe. He stumbles to their bed and throws himself upon it, crawling under their quilt.

“Mike…” Tim sinks to his knees beside the bed. He can see tears leaking from the corners of Mike’s eyes. “I’m not mad, Mike, I just gotta know what to do next.”

Mike can’t speak.

Tim crawls into bed with Mike, pressing his body against the line of his husband’s back. Tim pulls Mike to his chest, gathering him up in his arms, hiding his face against Mike’s neck. 

It’s not good for Tim to bear the weight of this, and it’s worse for Ruby.

A knock at the door rouses Tim (but not Mike). He steps out of bed and opens the front door. It’s his sister, with Ruby at her side.

Jenny studies the look on Tim’s face.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Thanks for… thanks for everything,” Tim settles, wiping his face with his palm.

“Is he —?”

Tim nods, and looks down at his daughter. He kneels.

Ruby throws her arms around her father’s neck. “Hi Pa.”

“Hey, sweetheart. Did you have fun with Aunt Jenny?”

Ruby nods and yawns. “Yes. I missed you. And Daddy.”

“I missed you too, half-pint. I’m glad you’re home.” Tim stands up to hug his sister. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime, Timmy,” but Jenny catches Tim’s hand as he pulls away. “Unwrap your heart from his,” she warns.

Tim’s eyes harden. “It’s not as easy as that,” he tells her. “Good day.”

His heart is racing when he closes the door. He watches his daughter’s eyes as she studies her sleeping father.

“Is Daddy okay?” Ruby asks Tim in that small voice that breaks her fathers’ hearts.

Tim scoops Ruby into his arms and hugs her tightly. 

“He’s just sleepy,” Tim lies, feeling rotten for having done so.

Ruby must sense that Tim needs comfort and throws her arms around her Pa’s neck, keeping her little hands there even as Tim tries to hide his broken sob in her tawny hair.

Something slices through Tim’s heart like a scythe.

*

Tim watches from the shadows as Mike destroys himself. He becomes used to his lazy demeanor and his sluggish, despondent mood, but one night Tim finds Mike barely conscious in bed and it scares the hell out of him.

Mike’s brown eyes are glassy, his pupils blown. His skin is white as a sheet.

“Mike!” Tim hisses.

His husband is unresponsive.

Tim shakes him, grabbing him by the arm and tugging wildly. 

Mike blinks a few times and starts to mumble, his words incoherent and his speech slurred. Tim can’t understand a word.

“Mike. Mike! Please!”

Tim does his best not to panic, taking Mike’s pulse.

Mike chokes, a sound that comes out as a rattling gurgle. 

Tim can tell Mike is starting to upchuck, the struggling sounds growing louder. Tim rolls Mike onto his side, clearing his airway and assuring he can breathe.

Disoriented, Mike takes shallow breaths that almost slow to a pause. His body goes limp.

Tim touches his hand to Mike’s sweaty brow. _It’s the damn morphine,_ Tim thinks, angry. _It has to be._

As Tim tries to keep Mike warm, the gray storm clouds in the sky begin to release torrents of rain. Water comes down in sheets on the horizon, gray threads in the distance. A distant clash of thunder claps, too far away to be a threat.

Tim manages to drift off to sleep, ears attuned to the uneven breaths of his husband and the rain pelting down in a steady, reassuring rhythm.

Asleep, he finds no rest. Tim’s sleeping mind is invaded by dreams, dark ones. Twisted, spiraling visions of life, altered.

First comes to mind the image of water, the peaceful creek seeming all too foreboding in the dreamscape. Tim watches in his mind’s eye as Mike steps into the water, but instead of gentle ripples, the water takes hold of him. The typically calm water grabs his ankles, yanking him into the deep, as the water seems to spill out of the creek and drip across Tim’s vision.

Tim tries to call out, but finds he has no voice.

*

With Mike so distant, Tim turns to his sister for help.

“Why do you let him do this to you?” Jen presses.

There’s a deep despair in Tim’s eyes, but somewhere distant, a flicker of hope. He lets her continue.

“You’ve always been a wanderer. You don’t have to stop here.”

“You don’t understand, Jen. Everything I’ve been through, every mile I’ve traveled… it led me here, to Mike. There’s a purpose in this life. Our life,” he corrects. “I love him.”

“You lovesick fool.” Jen crosses her arms. “You don’t stand a chance.”

Tim can only offer a wry smile.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

Tim looks up and meets his sister’s eyes. Her face has softened, and finally she seems to understand. 

“It doesn’t sound like you have a choice, Tim,” Jen continues. “Go get him.”

*

Mike continues to drown in self-pity. Tim can tell Mike has the chills in the morning, but he can’t stop himself from trying. 

“Why are you killing yourself?”

Mike tries to point at Tim. “That’s rich coming from you. You’re the one whose got that bullet you always say has your name on it.”

Tim balls his hands into fists. Tim told him about that in a rare moment of vulnerability. He remembers the moment, turning over the bullet in his fingers as he told Mike about how he’d kept it in his pocket for years. “ _If it comes to this, I’ll be ready,_ ” Tim had promised.

“Bastard,” Tim spits, unable to control his outburst. Something keeps him from leaving the room, however.

Tim doesn’t leave Mike’s side until Mike’s breathing evens out, color starting to return to his skin.

Tim stares at his husband, stares right through him. His heart feels as calloused as his hands.

“I feel so fucking alone,” Tim admits, forlorn. His voice is hollow. “I miss you.”

And then, quiet.

*

_Is this it?_

This is the moment Tim sees in his sleep, again and again: Mike, barefoot and disheveled, wading into the creek.

Tim’s heart plummets. Everything seems to melt away.

Tim watches Mike cradle the small jar in his hands, fingers dancing over the faded label.

Then, all of a sudden, Mike tosses the jar into the river.

Tim’s heart may be an oak but his body is shaking like a willow tree. He doesn’t cry, but today he can’t stop himself, burying his sobs in Mike’s neck. It starts slow - one broken gasp against Mike - and it keeps up until the tears flow from Tim’s eyes and down his face. 

“Thank you,” Tim croaks. He feels his emotions draining from his body, barely able to disguise his tremble.

*

Things get worse before they get better. 

“Please, Tim, you have to get some more,” Mike begs, his body ill from the lack of morphine after having grown used to it for some time.

Tim braces himself for every denial. “I won’t give it to you.”

So Mike spends the late hours of every evening trying to still his shaky legs and keep himself from retching. 

Every so often on the bad nights, Tim wipes Mike’s sweaty brow with a wet rag. “You’re stronger than this…” Tim reminds him, but he struggles through the night anyway. Mike never falls asleep until just before sun up.

Tim doesn’t sit down in his chair until he’s satisfied that Mike has settled down for the night. He falls asleep while still upright, his own body shutting down from exhaustion.

*

The days grow longer, wheat shining golden in the sun. After Mike starts purging the sickness from his body, the two men start going for regular walks in the wilderness together. Day by day, Mike grows stronger, returning to himself. He builds up his fortitude bit by bit.

Some nights, when Ruby is tucked away safely in her bed, the men sneak away into the darkness. Sometimes they don’t say a word at all, their quiet strolls accompanied only by the chirp of crickets.

The starlight makes Tim feel small and inconsequential. It’s not until Mike lays eyes on him that he suddenly feels as if he is located at the very center of the universe.

*

It’s a brisk afternoon when the two men are down by the river, laughing like young lovers. Tim catches a glimpse of the place where Mike carved their initials into a tree, a sight that always fills him with giddy pleasure.

“I used to think the roads out west would be paved with gold, Mike,” Tim opines. “But the only road that matters is the one that led me to you.”

An afternoon storm blows in, but instead of rushing back to the house, Tim turns his face to the rain. He grabs Mike’s hand and kisses him, hard, until they’re slipping through the mud.

Touching each other again is like magic, and it feels like falling in love for a second time.

Mike clings to Tim.

“Do you think you could love me again?” Mike asks quietly, and it breaks Tim’s heart.

“I never stopped, Mike, I swear. You’re my world. My open horizon.”

Mike can’t hide his smile. “I love you, Tim. _Forever_ ,” he says, remembering the way Tim had promised him his hand.

Tim leans his forehead against Mike’s. “It’s good to see that look in your eyes,” he says quietly. “The one I remember.”

*

With Mike returning to himself, life settles down, and things return to passing for normal. The biggest upheaval of the holidays is the afternoon that Ruby touches Tim’s rifle, the one in its spot by the door, where it always is (when it’s not in his hands).

“Ruby!” Tim hollers, red in the face and mad as anything. Though Tim has a temper, he’s always been determined that Ruby will never bear the brunt of it. Today, it all goes out the window. “You never touch that. Never!”

Ruby faces him, steely, but her lip trembles and then she breaks. She starts to cry, running to Mike and burying her face against his leg.

“Ruby,” Mike says softly. “Sugar. One day Pa will teach you, but until then, you know better. It’s a tool, and even then it requires utmost safety,” Mike explains. “Smart girl.” He picks up Ruby and she cries in Mike’s arms.

Mike looks up. “Tim,” he warns.

Tim is still furious, pacing by the front door. After a minute, he kneels in front of Mike and Ruby.

“Ruby.”

Ruby doesn’t want to look at her Pa. 

“Ruby, look at me, please.” Tim waits until she lifts her head up. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. I just don’t want you to get hurt.” He wipes away her tears with his thumb. “I’m sorry I scared you,” Tim continues, “but I need you to understand why.”

Ruby nods. “Yes, Pa.”

Tim kisses her forehead. 

She still runs back to Mike after he finishes reprimanding her. Ruby sniffles and tugs at Mike’s clothes, begging to be picked up.

Mike hugs Ruby. “You gotta listen to your Pa about this, Ruby. He just wants to keep you safe.”

Tim watches Mike reassure her, brushing a hand over her hair. He sucks in a deep breath before stepping out into the crisp night air to clear his head. He stays outside for a long time, letting the cool air work through his system and ease his mind. 

He crawls into their bed long past nightfall, letting the covers swallow him up.

“You’ve been moody since dinner,” Mike observes.

“I didn’t want to yell at Ruby,” he admits.

“You didn’t mean to lose your temper.”

“I hate seeing her cry, Mike.” Tim exhales. 

“Tim, I promise you that if she remembers today, it will be because of the important lesson her Pa taught her, not because you snapped for one second.”

“Okay,” comes Tim’s reluctant answer.

“Everybody makes mistakes. But you didn’t make one,” Mike promises. “Plus I hollered pretty loud when I saw her get into the molasses cookies last night. I think you’ll be all right. So will she.”

Tim grins. “You didn’t tell me about that.”

“We worked it out. She’s a tough little girl.”

They share a moment of laughter, and Tim tucks his head against Mike’s chest.

“I love you,” Mike reminds him. “I love you both.”

*

Ruby listens to her fathers, and Tim decides to reward her good behavior.

The seasons change, summer into autumn, and when the temperature dips and the leaves begin to fall from the trees, Tim gives Ruby her first lesson with his prized Winchester 73 rifle.

“Maybe one day we’ll talk about hunting but this is about self-defense, Ruby, okay?” Tim explains. “If you pick up my rifle, that means you’re aiming it, and if you aim, you better be prepared to fire it.” Tim holds out the rifle. “Pick it up. See how it feels.”

The gun is heavier than Ruby expects, but she lifts it up and puts the butt of the stock to her shoulder like she’s seen Tim do countless times.

“Good. Now spread your feet apart a little. Make sure you’re steady.”

Ruby mimics the stance that she’s seen Tim use.

“How’s that feel?”

“Heavy.”

“You remember what I told you?”

“Always treat the rifle like it’s loaded. And don’t miss.” His words echo in her head: _ride, shoot straight, and tell the truth._

“Yeah, and you keep that thing pointed away from yourself, okay? And people and horses and anything you don’t want to shoot.”

“I know, Pa.”

“Remember, finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire,” he instructs. “And pull it softly. The rifle will do the work.”

Tim shows her how to load the rifle, making her watch every step. He hadn’t told her that there was no round chambered yet; he wants her to learn good habits.

“Don’t let go, okay? Just take a deep breath and then squeeze.”

Ruby breathes in, and on the exhale, squeezes the trigger. The gun goes off with a loud noise. Ruby’s a little shaky, but she’s still got the rifle in a firm grip. She misses the target, but it’s only her first time. Practice makes perfect.

She pulls the lever and fires again. Another miss.

Tim hears Ruby mumble “ride, shoot straight, and speak the truth” under her breath. Ruby steadies herself and aims again.

The third time is the charm. Ruby’s third shot strikes one of the milk bottles Tim had set up as targets and it shatters. Intrepid, she’s picking it up right quick.

“All right!” Tim cheers. Like father, like daughter. "A good hunter enters the woods and kills a deer with a clean, merciful shot."

Ruby makes two more shots before Tim challenges her. “How many rounds are left?”

“Ten,” she answers confidently.

“Are you sure?”

Ruby narrows her eyes. She thinks it over and licks her lips. “Yes.”

“Attagirl,” he says proudly.

*

December brings the wind and cold, and Tim starts to go plumb crazy.

One winter day Mike catches Tim dragging a leafy spruce toward their front door.

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s a Christmas tree.”

“You’re taking that thing inside the house?!”

“Give me a hand, would you?”

“You’ve lost your mind, Tim!” _What kind of nonsense has Andy the German been putting in Tim’s head?_

“Shut up and help me.”

Between the two of them, they hustle the pine tree into the house. Tim shows Mike exactly where to put the tree, right in front of the window.

“It’ll be special,” Tim promises. “Every family is getting one.”

Mike shakes his head.

“Ruby’s going to love it!” Tim puts his hands on his hips. “And I kind of like it too.”

“Okay, okay,” Mike grumbles, giving in.

“Help us decorate the tree tomorrow?” Tim asks hopefully.

“With _what_?”

Tim reaches over and lifts up a box that had escaped Mike’s notice.

Maybe this is a surprise Tim has been planning for longer than Mike thought. Taking a look into the box, he finds an assortment of _stuff_ to use on the tree: tinsel, a few glass baubles, and a small bird’s nest.

Mike smiles, starting to come around.

“Speaking of Christmas… what do _you_ want, Tim?”

“I’ll be all right. Just need you by my side.”

Mike shakes his head, wanting to give Tim more than that. 

Tim catches Mike’s cheek, draws his face up so that their eyes meet.

“Are you with me?” Tim asks.

“Always,” comes Mike’s reliable answer, followed by Tim’s reliable kiss.

*

The morning of December 25th rolls around before they know it. Tim goes positively mad with Christmas spirit, decorating the home with tinsel and pressed paper. His cheer is contagious. Mike’s never seen him so happy before.

Tim invites his sister to their home for Christmas — the more McVeighs the merrier.

At the center of it all is Tim’s Christmas tree.

Mike hands Ruby a wooden star for the top of the tree, one he’d carved himself.

Tim picks her up and hefts her up so she can place the star atop the evergreen. He catches Mike’s eye as he sets her down, and they share a smile.

“Maybe for Christmas I’ll get a sister,” Ruby says excitedly.

Tim snickers, and Mike hides a grin. “I don’t know about that,” Mike admits. With two fathers, she’s out of luck.

Mike had tucked two peppermint sticks into Tim’s stocking and into Ruby’s, an orange. She’s never seen the fruit before, a rare treat, and she’s fascinated.

“How do you open it?” Ruby asks.

Mike shows her how to peel the orange. 

Ruby stays distracted by the orange until she spies her father’s fiddle. “Oh, please?” Ruby asks.

Tim pulls Ruby back into his lap. “Come on, Mike, what do you say?”

“It’s that time, huh? We’ll open the rest of the presents after we eat.”

Mike picks up the fiddle and stands beside the fire. His music is warm as the flames themselves, the soulful baying of strings resonating like the fire in the hearth.

Tim takes in the scene, his daughter in his lap, his husband playing the fiddle, his sister laboring over the rest of the food. It’s so warm and welcome, and not at all what he expected when he left for the west.

They listen to Mike play Christmas carols on his fiddle until supper’s ready. Christmas dinner is a roast turkey that Tim caught, but the table is full of food. They’ve all chipped in.

“Look at the size of that thing,” Mike remarks about the turkey.

“I helped!” Ruby boasts proudly.

Jen’s head snaps up to look at Ruby with wide eyes as she says it.

Mike covers her mouth with his hand before Ruby can say anything else. Aunt Jenny doesn’t need to learn about Tim and Ruby’s hunting trips just yet.

The meal is hearty - there’s salt-rising bread and baked beans and cranberry sauce to go along with the turkey. It’s a collaborative effort, but a rewarding one indeed.

Jen reveals a store of sugar cookies for dessert, and there’s plenty of apple pie to go around, baked fresh with fruit from the trees in the yard.

The fire burns warm as they trade stories and laughter, twinkling candles aglow above the fireplace. It’s cozy. Tim looks happy.

Mike smiles into his mug of tea. This family is getting larger by the minute.

Aunt Jenny’s gifts are hand-knitted stockings for each of them, large and lumpy but a well-intentioned effort. Ruby accepts hers with glee, and Tim’s too distracted with the joy of having his sister around at Christmastime to care.

Jen’s present from Tim and Mike comes next. She unwraps it with pleasure, uncovering a leather-bound dictionary.

“I love it!” Jen tells them, thrilled as she flips through the pages.

“Is that everything?” Ruby asks excitedly.

“I’ve got something for your Pa,” Mike admits, pulling out another package.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” Tim points out. “I thought we weren’t doing any gifts.” All he needs is their company. Regardless, he peels open the brown paper. Mike’s gift for Tim is a Colt Single Action Army revolver.

Tim is flabbergasted. His jaw drops at the sight of such a thoughtful gift.

Tim yanks Mike into a warm, gracious kiss. Aunt Jenny and Ruby look on, but the two men only have eyes for each other.

“This is incredible. Thank you,” he opines, eyes gleaming. “Now I can get by with the same caliber for my rifle and revolver.” Genius.

It feels good to give something back to Tim, Mike thinks warmly, pleased with Tim’s reaction.

“I’ve got something for you, too,” Tim continues, but Mike can’t see _what_.

Tim holds out a closed fist, and Mike instinctively opens his palm.

“Tim,” Mike says softly when he realizes what he’s holding in his hand. It’s Tim’s last bullet, the one he’s been holding onto for years, but it’s not a bullet anymore. The metal has been fashioned into a ring instead.

Mike knows what it means just as well as Tim does, understanding what it signifies for Tim to have given this up, to have given it to him. 

“It’s nothing,” Tim says, but when Mike slips the ring onto his finger, Tim can’t look away.

It’s everything.

Mike recalls a memory; Tim on his knees on their bare floor, promising him all that he had. _Forever_ , he’d said. This is a reminder Tim had meant those words. Proof that Mike had saved him the same way Tim had brought Mike back from the edge.

With all the presents opened, the adults settle down at the table again, though Tim keeps his eyes on the tree. Mike wonders if the popcorn on the tree reminds Tim of storms of winters past, too.

“Merry Christmas,” Tim wishes his family. He winks as he pours a shot of whiskey into his coffee mug, doing the same for Mike, using his body to shield the motion from Jennifer.

Mike covers Tim’s hand with his own, ring displayed boldly on his left hand.

Ruby plays with her new doll while the men drink and stretch their mouths, and Jen watches the family with a smile. 

Mike eventually picks up his fiddle again after finishing his coffee. The room fills with his slow, tender rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen”.

It’s utterly peaceful.

Tim helps himself to another slice of apple pie as Mike starts up “Jingle Bells”, enjoying the Christmas carols that Mike plays into the evening.

“I should get home before the snow starts falling,” Jen reluctantly admits with a yawn.

“I’ll take you back in the wagon. You want any of this cornbread for later?” Mike asks her.

“I’m stuffed!”

“Here. Take a piece for breakfast tomorrow,” Mike says anyway, putting together leftovers in a handkerchief.

“Can I go with you?” Ruby asks.

“I don’t see why not. I’ll come along for the ride, too,” Tim offers.

Tim bundles up Ruby while Mike hitches the horse to the wagon. Tim makes Jen sit between himself and Mike for warmth, pulling Ruby onto his lap. He tucks a heavy blanket over their legs.

The road back to Tim’s old house - now Jennifer’s place - isn’t all that far. Tim likes having her close. 

It’s a delightful ending to a memorable Christmas. Still full up on cheer, they sing Christmas carols the whole way. When they arrive at their destination, Tim insists on walking his sister to her front door. 

Jen throws her arms around his neck in a hug. “Merry Christmas.”

“Best Christmas in a long time,” he whispers against her curly hair. “Thank you.”

Jen sneaks a forlorn glance at Mike and Ruby. “Goodnight, Tim.”

Tim gives her another hug and returns to his husband and daughter.

The journey back home is quiet. Tiny snowflakes begin to drop from the sky.

Mike lets Ruby hold the horse’s reins on the road back to the house. It gives him the freedom to slip his hand into Tim’s.

Tim kisses Mike, lips pressed to his cold cheek. “Shooting star,” he points out. “Make a wish.”

Ruby sucks in a breath and closes her eyes, making a silent wish, and her Pa does the same.

“What did you wish for?” Mike asks eventually.

Ruby answers that one for Tim. “He can’t tell you, Daddy! Then the wish won’t come true.”

“She’s right,” Tim agrees, and he squeezes Mike’s hand.

*

It’s barely two days after Christmas when Jen makes a point of pulling Tim aside in secret. He’s not prepared for the words he’s about to hear.

“I’m in trouble, Tim.” 

Tim will do anything for his little sister. “What’s the matter?”

Jen looks down. “I’m with child.” She looks at her brother.

“Jenny…”

“I don’t want to be a mother. Not yet. Not alone. I want to be a teacher.”

Tim listens quietly. She sounds serious.

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“I didn’t want to spoil Christmas,” Jen admits. 

Tim stands up and hugs his baby sister. “Never, Jen.” He takes a deep breath. “Having a child is the best thing in the world.”

“Not for me. Not yet. Tim… think of the scandal.”

Tim reluctantly agrees. Teachers weren’t meant to be married or have children of their own - she would lose her job. “We’ll take care of the baby if that’s what you really want.”

“Talk to Mike,” Jen agrees.

Tim’s blue eyes shine. “It’s a miracle,” he mystifies. “A baby at Christmas. Jenny, the timing!”

“You realize it’ll be summertime before the baby is due,” Jen points out. “I’m no virgin mother,” she admits.

“No, but you’re an angel.”

She finds strength in her brother’s eyes.

*

Tim spends a week coming up with ways to bring the topic into conversation with Mike, but Mike ends up doing it for him.

Tim, dead quiet, is sitting at the table fidgeting with something.

Mike can’t help but notice his husband’s silent focus, sitting down across from him to glean what afflicts him.

“What is that?”

Tim doesn’t answer.

“Come on,” his husband cajoles.

“Mike —”

“Another stray this time?” Mike recognizes that forgiving tone. “Show me,” Mike insists, when Tim stays quiet.

Tim reveals that he is cradling one of Ruby’s old toys in his hands.

Mike doesn’t understand.

Tim’s eyes are soft when Mike meets his. “What if we raised another child?”

“Ha ha. You sound like Ruby.”

“I’m serious, Mike. Jenny’s having a baby.”

“Holy —”

Tim puts his finger to Mike’s lips. “Just hear me out. She’s real worried, and she doesn’t want this for herself yet. She’s not ready.”

“What if she changes her mind?”

“What if she —“ Tim repeats. Of all the questions Mike could ask, that’s not the one he expected. “I guess she might. But I don’t think she will. Jen’s as stubborn as I am.”

“We should think about this.”

“That’s what I’m doing,” Tim admits. 

Mike reaches out and covers Tim’s hand with his own. He knows what this must mean to Tim. This is his sister they’re talking about. Besides, he can’t put the image of Tim holding another baby out of his mind.

Before Tim can even ask, Mike gives him his answer.

“Okay. Yes. _Yes_ ,” Mike agrees. “We’ll do it.”

Tim rushes into Mike’s arms, taking him by surprise when he almost knocks him over and muffles his words with a kiss. 

*

So Ruby doesn’t get a sister after all, but by summertime, she has a baby brother. 

Jenny doesn’t start showing until late spring, and manages to keep her pregnancy a secret during the summer break from school. In September, she gives birth to a healthy baby boy. They name him William, after Tim and Jen’s father and grandfather. William Michael McVeigh.

“We have a son,” Tim marvels, staring down at the baby in his arms, at William’s already thick crop of dark hair. Beside them, Mike’s eyes are full of pride.

Jen watches with a smile as her big brother and his husband hold their new baby. She has no regrets.

Mike takes Tim’s face in his hands, pausing to gaze fondly at his son before kissing his husband’s forehead. 

“Thank you for not giving up on me,” Mike murmurs. The words of gratitude, whispered in between William’s soft cries, are like music to Tim’s ears.

*

A now frequent scene: Ruby dancing playfully with her little brother, twirling about like a whirling dervish, her fathers looking on in amusement.

“Poor Billy,” Mike muses, “The kid never gets a break.”

Tim looks up. “Say that again.”

“What?”

“What you just said. Say it again.”

“Poor Billy… the kid is… I forgot the rest, Tim.”

“Billy the Kid,” Tim repeats with a grin. “I like the sound of that.”

Mike can’t help but smile too.

“Do you think one day we’ll dance at her wedding?” Mike asks, looking on.

The question catches Tim by surprise. Tim’s never danced with anyone before. Tim smiles at their daughter; he often wonders how such a bright little thing came from two hard-hearted pioneers. “I reckon,” Tim agrees, stifling a chuckle. She deserves a love for the ages. Tim lifts Billy into his arms to give him some respite.

“You’re going to make your brother dizzy,” Tim warns Ruby, though Billy’s face bears the trademark McVeigh smile.

“I ain’t finished!”

“You’re not finished,” Tim corrects her.

“That’s what I said, ain’t it!”

 _That’s more like it_ , Tim thinks fondly. “Did you finish your schoolwork, half-pint?”

“Yeah,” Ruby answers, her voice going up half an octave.

“Really?” Tim double checks.

Caught in a lie, Ruby stops twirling, huffs, and sits down at the table.

Mike places Ruby’s slate in front of her. “Remember what your Pa always says, darlin’,” Mike reminds her.

“I know,” Ruby agrees, picking up her chalk. “There’s only three things that matter. To ride, shoot straight, and speak the truth.”

Mike leans down and kisses her hair, smiling at Tim over the top of her head. He sits down beside their daughter and begins helping Ruby with her arithmetic.

With Billy in his arms, Tim watches his family with an admiring gaze, the same kind of loving look he’ll share with Mike long after Billy chases his own fortune and Ruby marries and leaves her fathers all alone.

Quiet delight settles in Tim’s chest, a joy he’s never felt before falling into just the right place as he surveys all they’ve built together - their home, their family. Tim has searched for meaning his entire life, and here it is. Father - it’s the only title that has ever given him as much pride as soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I know men wouldn't wear wedding rings in this era. Sue me!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [dirtybandaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dirtybandaid) for putting up with my weirdness.


End file.
